


Pressed Flowers

by TheNoctambulist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Can't Kill Anything, Aziraphale Hates Customers, Aziraphale doesn't like it when people come in his bookshop, Aziraphale doing nice things, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Cheeky Aziraphale, Childhood Trauma, Crowley Doesn't Read, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley is a space nerd confirmed, Crowley loves him some soup, Crowley wearing Aziraphale's clothes, Crowley yelling at plants, Crying, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Dinner, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Kissing, Extremely Fluff, Florist Crowley (Good Omens), Flower Pressing, Flower meanings, Fluff, Human AU, Ineffable Fluff, Ineffable Partners, Ineffable Romance, Lilacs, M/M, Oi Shem!, Rain, Really Bad Adaptations of Oscar Wilde, References to Oscar Wilde, Roses, SUCH FLUFF, Soup, Stargazing, They almost have sex, a lil meet cute, ah well, but then they don't, crowley dishing death threats to the plants, daisies, don't question the soup, flowers n fluff, for some reason soup, ineffable husbands, it'll get better I swear, just suck it up, sloppy kisses, someone help him, sorry if you don't like human aus :(, the poor dear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNoctambulist/pseuds/TheNoctambulist
Summary: A romance between two business owners of London's SoHo.Anthony Crowley, proud owner of Eden (Producer of Fine Flowers and Bouquets since 2008), didn't expect to find love in his life. Ever. He had his plants, and what more could a florist want? But when Aziraphale Fell, a slightly fussy, altogether chaotic bookshop owner wanders into his shop looking for a bouquet, he begins to question what he really wants at all.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Houseplants (Good Omens)
Comments: 97
Kudos: 196
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically





	1. A Rose By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> AUGH so this is the first chapter out of i don't know how many but I hope you like it and um it's a human AU so sorry if you don't like those but hope you enjoy!

“You there!” Crowley’s voice was menacing as he stalked towards his target. “You _know_ I hate it when you get like this!” He brandished his weapon in front of him. 

“In fact, you’re practically begging to join your friend in hell, aren’t you?” He assumed a face of mock contemplation. “How long did you think it would be until my patience ran out, eh? A day? A week? A YEAR?” His voice rose with each increased time increment.

Crowley began to laugh maniacally, and then stopped and stared piercingly at his victim, who had begun to tremble immensely. 

“You know”--he raised his weapon--“how I feel”--his finger danced on the trigger--“about DROOPY LEAVES!” He pulled, spraying the somewhat lank leaves before him with water. He angled it downwards and let the liquid drip down into the soil. 

“Now,” he said after he was done spraying, “you need to stay OUT OF THE LIGHT.” He wiped his hands on his apron before picking up the plant and placing it in the shade. “This is your _last warning_ , I’m telling you.” He turned on his heel and stalked past the other greenery, eyeing them with scrutiny.

“ _You_ need to eat more. Look at all your neighbors. They’re doing _very_ well for themselves, and you? You’re puny, scrawny, and meaningless. If I don’t see improvement in the next week, well…” He clicked his tongue. “It’s into the bin for you.”

He found his way over to the largest plant in the shop he called Barnabas, misting the others as he went.

“And you. You think you’re so cocky, don’t you? But don’t get too proud for your pot, because you could end up _homeless_ just. As. Easy. As. Every. Other. _Plant. Here._ ”

Barnabas said nothing in return (he _was_ a plant, after all) but in his tiny plant consciousness he felt pure terror. 

Crowley chuckled darkly. “You think you’re ready for the real world? _Wrong_. You’ll never be ready, you pathetic plant. The outside? It’s cold. And hurtful. And positively _wretched_. Those trees? They’ll eat you _alive_. It’s complete-” 

“Ahem.” Crowley was cut off by someone clearing their throat from behind him. He straightened, trying to act as if he hadn’t just had a one-sided, rather intense conversation with a large houseplant. 

Crowley turned and was faced with a very fair man. His nose was upturned ever-so-slightly, and his blond hair was curled. He was dressed in a nice suit that was perfectly tailored to his portly figure, and a tartan bowtie was around his neck. Despite it being his shop, Crowley felt as though he were underdressed in his casual jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and green apron. 

“Can I- help you?” he managed to get out. The newcomer was staring at him with a bemused expression. 

“Ah- yes, as a matter of fact you can.” The customer tugged his lapels. “I’m Aziraphale Fell. I run a bookshop just around the bend there.” He gestured to a vague direction somewhere past the storefront before extending his hand. It took Crowley at least five seconds to determine he wanted a handshake. 

Crowley flushed a deep shade of scarlet and frantically wiped his sweaty and grimy palm on his apron before extending it to Aziraphale. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Crowley. Anthony Crowley. I run this place.” He spread his arms, and, noticing it didn’t elicit a reaction from Aziraphale, quickly put them down. 

“Yes. Well. I’m here for some flowers. Like I said before, I run a bookshop, and apparently the _atmosphere_ is too good for some. I have a very persistent customer who I learned the other day is allergic to _pollen_ , so to keep him away I decided to pop over and…” Aziraphale trailed off, glancing at Crowley as if he had forgotten he was there. “Anyways. I’ll be needing some flowers. Nothing to garish, if you please. Perhaps some nice, cream roses. I’ve been looking around out here, but I can’t find any.”

Crowley was now the one staring in confusion, before remembering it wasn’t his job to judge customers. So what if this bookshop owner didn’t want people coming? Aziraphale’s statement _also_ meant he was here longer than Crowley originally believed, meaning that he could have heard more of Crowley’s conversation than he originally believed. Crowley shrugged and shook his head, refocusing himself. 

“Right. Cream roses? I think I should have some in the back. Would yellow or white be OK?” 

“Mmm? Oh, yes, that should be fine.” Aziraphale bounced in place as Crowley rooted around. 

“Do you want them mixed with anything else, sir?”

“Just roses should be fine. Unless… do roses produce much pollen?”

Crowley stared. “No, not much. On account of their closed petals, you know. If you want high pollen, daisies are the way to go. And they still fit with your color scheme of white and yellow.” 

Aziraphale considered. “I hope it’s not too much trouble, but could you perhaps do all daisies, no roses?”

Crowley grinned mirthlessly. “It’s what I’m here to do.” He placed the roses back in their container and pointed Aziraphale to a cooler. “We have premade daisy bouquets.”

Aziraphale looked pleased. “Oh! Brilliant.” He went over to fetch one and came back with it clutched in the crook of his arm. He handed it off to Crowley to ring up. 

“Thank you,” Azirpahale said as Crowley passed him the now-paid-for bouquet. “Sorry for the trouble, with the roses and daisies and all.”

“A rose by any other name, eh?” Crowley joked, and Aziraphale smiled.

“Any other name, indeed.” Aziraphale wavered, as if he was about to say something more. 

“Is there anyone else here?” he eventually asked. “I heard you talking.”

Crowley looked away, conflicted over whether he should confess to talking to his plants. 

“Nah,” he replied. “Just talking to myself, I guess.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Just not the truth.

Aziraphale appeared satisfied with this answer. He smiled and waved farewell with his free hand. “Thank you so much again.”

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley leaned forward on the counter. “Hope you have a great day.”

“Right! You as well.” Crowley watched as Aziraphale traipsed out of his shop. The bell dinged as he exited. His eyes traced his new acquaintance as he passed by the side windows.

 _A bookshop_ , Crowley recalled. _He owns a bookshop_. As he headed towards the back room once more, he wondered if perhaps he should do some reading in the near future. 


	2. Light Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns the favor and goes to see Aziraphale in his bookshop.

Aziraphale was buzzing with anticipation. It was nearing his favorite time of day: closing time. It was when all the customers left, and his bookshop was empty of all other people. When he was free to stand in the middle of it all, inhaling the scent of books without judgy looks from other patrons. When he could pluck a book off the shelf, plop down into his favorite chair with a mug of cocoa, and read to his heart’s content. 

There was no doubt about it. Aziraphale loved books. And hated customers. Particularly one man named Mr. Perkins.

Mr. Perkins had been visiting his shop every day for the past week, always with some question about various first editions, the proper care of old books, whether Shakespeare works were overrated, and oftentimes just came to chat about books and whatnot. The worst part was, he would come right after he got off work, which was when Aziraphale would be getting ready to close. 

Aziraphale couldn’t _abide_ this idle conversation and bad timing, so when Mr. Perkins happened to let slip he was allergic to pollen, Aziraphale _knew_ he had to strategically place bouquets all around the bookshop to keep him away. 

When Mr. Perkins had entered yesterday, he immediately erupted into a violent sneezing fit. His eyes watered as he tried to engage Aziraphale in a conversation about various mystery novels and only left when Aziraphale practically shoved the bouquet in his face. Mr. Perkins hadn’t been back since, and Aziraphale hoped it would stay that way.

So when the bell rang five minutes before closing time, Aziraphale practically ran towards the bouquet to ward off the person who had entered, thinking it was Mr. Perkins. 

As the figure emerged, Aziraphale realized it was actually the flower shop owner he had _purchased_ the Mr. Perkins deterrent from. _Crowley_ , he remembered.

Crowley no longer had on his work apron; rather, he was dressed in a pale top that hung off his lanky frame and dark, tapered pants. His long hair was pulled back away from his face in a bun, but a few strands hung down, suggesting it had been up for a while. Behind his sunglasses, his face was twisted in a somewhat awkward expression.

Crowley raised his hand in greeting. “Hey.”

Aziraphale offered a smile. “Hello. Crowley, was it?”

He grinned gratefully back. “Yep. I see you still have the bouquet.”

“What?” Aziraphale glanced to where Crowley was looking, and caught sight of the daisies. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I do.”

“They’re in remarkably good condition,” Crowley noted, subtle awe crossing his face.

“Oh. Well. My family always says I have a knack for keeping things alive,” Aziraphale replied in a jovial manner. “I don’t think I could kill anything if I tried.”

“No? Not even spiders?” 

“Not even spiders,” Aziraphale confirmed. 

Crowley laughed. “Well. Anyways. I thought I’d pop by. I’ve been in need of some reading material.”

Aziraphale brightened. “I suppose I _do_ have plenty of that. Come on, now. What’re you interested in?”

“Plants, mostly,” Crowley said without thinking.

“No, I mean book genres.”

“Oh.” Crowley flushed. “Of course. Right. Um. The thing is, I don’t think I’ve _actually read_ a book since they stopped being required in grade school.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “Really? Well. I _do_ have a small section on botany. I can see what I can find there, if you’d like.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure. ‘Course. You’re the expert here, so… lead on.” He made it look like he was going to follow Aziraphale, but lagged back and turned to the bouquet.

“You,” he threatened in a hushed voice. “Don’t you dare go brown.”

The flowers trembled in response. Crowley grinned, satisfied. 

“Are you coming?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded from a few shelves over. 

“Yeah, give me one second.” Crowley gave one last menacing look at the daisies before joining Aziraphale. 

“Here’s the selection.” Aziraphale flourished his arms like a game show prize presenter. 

Crowley looked the titles over. They all seemed to be along the lines of how to grow a certain type of plant, or what to do if your perennial shrubs weren’t sprouting, and he already knew the answers to those questions. He turned to Aziraphale.

“What are some of your favorite books? Could I read one of those?” 

Aziraphale looked surprised but still delighted at his question.

“Certainly! I know I probably shouldn’t, given proper organization and all, but I keep them shelved together.” He led Crowey through the aisle until they were nearly in the back. 

“Here we are!” Aziraphale gazed at the spines with longing. Crowley eyed them with a look of what could only be called vague suspicion and trepidation.

Aziraphale caught sight of his face and nearly laughed. “They won’t bite, you know.”

Crowley reached out and took the smallest one he could find, handling it gently. Several of the books looked as if they might crumble if he so much as breathed on them.

“ _The Picture of Dorian Gray_?” he read, then looked up at Aziraphale, curious.

“Ah, one of Oscar Wilde’s. Marvelous author, I tell you. It’s one of his only novels.”

Crowley inspected it. It looked rather plain, by book standards. Faded gold vines ran along the spine. 

“It’s a first edition,” Aziraphale said rather proudly. 

Crowley hurriedly put it back on the shelf, a slight blush coming to his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry. For touching it, I mean. I-” He struggled for words, making a few awkward noises before shutting up completely. “Sorry.”

This caused Aziraphale to laugh. “No trouble at all, my dear. If you want to read it, I’m sure I have another copy of it somewhere.”

“Oh. Uh. Sure. Why not?” Crowley followed Aziraphale back to the front of the shop. He found a much newer copy of the book he had been holding not a minute previously and placed it in Crowley’s hands. 

“Anything else I can do for you?” Aziraphale gazed at Crowley, wide-eyed and expectant.

Crowley shook his head. “Nah, but thanks for offering.”

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “It’s no trouble. It’s my job, after all.”

Crowley returned his kind expression and chuckled lightly. “Yeah. Guess it is.”

It was fifteen minutes _after_ closing time by the time Crowley left, and surprisingly, Aziraphale didn’t feel at all upset. Usually he would try to close up fifteen minutes _before_ , if there weren’t any customers. He didn’t think he’d ever had a customer stay until the shop closed, much less after it. 

Yet Crowley didn’t feel like a customer. He felt like a friend, despite the two having only a few encounters to boot. 

Aziraphale had no mind for reading that night, so he decided to turn in early. On his way up to the small flat he had over the bookshop, he passed the daisies.

He studied them. _They do look rather fresh_ , he thought, and found himself regretting his peculiar talent. After all, he wouldn’t oppose another visit to the florist.


	3. Nothin' Like Some Soup on a Rainy Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets stuck in the rain, but a familiar face is there to keep him dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you're craving soup at the end of this.

Rain was pouring hard by the time Crowley exited the convenience store. It had been slightly cloudy when he had left, so he wasn’t surprised to see what had been simply overcast skies turn into a storm. He was, however, still greatly put out by it. All he had wanted to do was buy soup, and instead he was being treated to a free, freezing shower.

He hunched over his paper bags full of soup cans, trying to shield them from the wetness of the outside. It hardly did anything. The bags were already starting to darken with droplets, and Crowley knew it was only a matter of time before they failed to function properly. 

Water dripped down from his hair onto his nose, causing him to sneeze. Rain fell on his sunglasses, until he was finally forced to remove them before he went totally blind. He tossed them into the slowly deteriorating bag with the rest of his purchases. 

His hair darkened, some strands plastering to his forehead while others stood straight up, frizzy from the humidity. His feet were cold. His jacket was soaked. 

In short, Crowley did not like the rain. His dislike was only strengthened when the bottoms of the paper bags tore, spilling his purchases everywhere. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Crowley muttered, bending down to collect the numerous cans of soup he had bought. The people that passed did not offer to help; they just simply maneuvered their way around him. 

Buying a lot of soup seemed like a good idea at the time (after all, who doesn’t love a good cup of soup?) but soon he began to regret the decision his hungry stomach had made. The rain made the cans harder to hold, and they kept falling out of his arms. As soon as he’d pick it up another would drop. It was nearly like juggling, and Crowley, to put it simply, was struggling.

“Well, _you_ look like you could use some help.” A pair of legs in tan trousers appeared in his peripheral vision. Crowley looked up and saw who it was. 

“Aziraphale,” he breathed. 

It was indeed Aziraphale, standing over him smiling. He carried a large black umbrella and looked as put together as always. 

Crowley flushed as he realized his current position, scrabbling about like a gremlin of sorts on the ground while Aziraphale was standing like a civilized human. He straightened, dropping two soup cans in his haste. One landed on his foot. Tears welled in his eyes as the pain registered, shooting up his leg. 

“Shit!” he declared loudly. “Sorry,” he added, looking at Aziraphale’s bemused-but-slightly-worried expression. “S’not your fault.” 

“Here.” Aziraphale placed his umbrella in Crowley’s hand (despite it being preoccupied) and bent down to retrieve the soup cans. 

“Oh. You really didn’t have to do that. That’s awfully kind of you. I-” Crowley had begun to ramble, and Aziraphale cut him off with a shush. 

“It’s no trouble. But, ah… if you don’t mind me asking, why do you have so much soup?” Aziraphale smiled, waiting for an answer. 

“I was hungry, I guess. Don’t really know. I just wanted soup.” 

Aziraphale laughed, and then his expression turned serious. “You’re absolutely soaking. What were you thinking, going out in this weather without proper attire?”

“Well, it wasn’t like _this_ when I went out,” Crowley replied defensively. He was slightly saddened by the fact that Aziraphale had assumed him stupid enough to go out in the rain without an umbrella. Upon more careful consideration, Crowley _could_ see some point behind Aziraphale’s assessment. 

“I see.” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder. “Here. Come to my bookshop and dry off. It’s only a block away.”

Crowley immediately began to refuse. “Oh, I couldn’t. You’ve done so much already. I’ll just take my soup and get out of your hair, honestly.”

Aziraphale’s mouth hardened in a line. “Nonsense.” He turned on his heel and started walking down the sidewalk in the rain, taking two cans of soup with him and leaving Crowley with his umbrella.

“Wait! Fine, I’ll go. Just give me my soup.” Crowley had to jog to catch up to Aziraphale, despite the fact that he was walking (though he did keep a rather brisk pace). 

Aziraphale grinned. “I knew you’d come.”

“Course I would. You left your umbrella.” 

Aziraphale’s smile only widened in response. 

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You’re completely mad.”

“We’re here!” Aziraphale announced, speaking over Crowley. He opened the door, the bell jangling cheerily. A blast of musty, warm air greeted them. 

Crowley wavered on the threshold. He was still holding Aziraphale’s dripping umbrella, but couldn’t shake it off before entering without dropping several soup cans. 

Aziraphale noticed his hesitation and, being a very perceptive person, read the situation. 

“Oh, silly me.” He reached and took the umbrella from Crowley, who murmured gratefully. Aziraphale shook it while simultaneously ushering Crowley in, fussing over him. 

“You can set the soup down there.” Aziraphale pointed to a spot of clear area on an otherwise cluttered table. Crowley set them down, thankful his arms were finally relieved of their burden. 

“Would you like some tea?” Aziraphale was already headed to the back, where (presumably) the kitchen was. The question he had asked was obviously rhetorical, but Crowley still answered. 

“Um. Yeah. That’d be great.” He stood, unsure if he should come in further. He was still wet, and didn’t want to risk ruining any of Aziraphale’s books. Aziraphale, however, waved him in further. 

“Come.” He walked briskly to the back. Crowley stalked behind him, afraid of touching anything in case he wrecked it. 

“Here’s a towel.” Aziraphale tossed him a fluffy white rectangle of fabric before continuing. “I have some dry clothes, if you want them. I don’t think we’re the same size, but… I figured I’d offer.”

Crowley rubbed his hair furiously with the towel, leaving it mussed and stringy around his face. “That… would be great, actually. Um. Do you want me to…?” He trailed off, unsure.

Aziraphale giggled. “Don’t worry. I’ll get them for you. You can change in the pantry.” He picked up a mug from the table beside him and handed it to Crowley. “Here’s your tea.”

“How’d you get it ready so fast?” Crowley wondered, eyes wide with amazement. 

Aziraphale smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways. Now, the clothes.” He grasped the air with hands, as if he was actively looking for the task. “Right.” He exited the kitchen, walking quickly with a purpose in mind.

Crowley watched him go and found himself grinning involuntarily. The mug had warmed his hands, and though it was only a small comfort, he felt himself feeling better already. He raised the mug to his mouth and sipped, cursing under his breath when he burned his tongue on the piping drink. 

Footsteps from above drawing closer warned him of Aziraphale’s entrance.

“Here you go.” Aziraphale offered the folded clothes to Crowley, who put the tea down and accepted them.

“I don’t know how to thank you, really.”

“You can thank me by getting out of those wet things.” Aziraphale nearly pushed Crowley into a side room to change. “I’ll heat up your soup.”

Crowley stammered as Aziraphale closed the door on him. His ability to string words together was completely obliterated by Aziraphale’s kindness. 

He stood in the dark for a few moments, still processing everything that happened. The faint pattering of rain woke him from his reverie. He found the light switch and flipped it on, bathing the pantry in a soft yellow glow. 

The clothes that Aziraphale had given him were simple and soft, and they smelled comforting, like vanilla, almonds, and chamomile. The shirt was a pale blue, long sleeved button up. It hung on him like a smock, his limber frame unable to fill out the expanse of fabric. The sleeves weren’t _too_ long, but he still had to roll them up once to have use of his hands.

The pants, however, were a different story. They were ridiculously baggy and somehow too short at the same time. Aziraphale hadn’t given him a belt, but he had already been wearing one, thankfully. He dried it and fastened it above his waist, hiking up the pants as far as they would go. He left the first few buttons of the shirt undone, showing off his collarbones. With his shirt tucked in, he supposed it looked like a half-assed fashion statement. 

He ran his hands through his damp hair, trying to make it look presentable. His hand stuck in knots that had somehow tied themselves in his mane, and eventually it became too much. Abandoning his hair completely, he gave it one final finger-comb and exited the pantry he was in. 

“I made you soup! I have it here- oh!” Aziraphale turned, and, taking in Crowley’s appearance, blushed a brilliant shade of scarlet and dropped the bowl of soup. 

Crowley’s hand went self-consciously to his face. “Is it that bad?” he asked, only half-joking. 

“Oh! Not at all, my dear, just- not what I was expecting. That is to say, not precisely in the sense that it’s-” Aziraphale stammered, flustered. 

“Where do you keep your dish towels?” Crowley inquired, beginning to open drawers.

“Over there,” Aziraphale replied, glad to be off the spot. “What for?”

“I'll clean up the soup.”

Immediately, Aziraphale began to protest.

“You’re the guest here! Drop the dish towel, Crowley. It was my mess. _I’ll_ be the one to clean it.”

Crowley smiled as he soaked up the soup, occasionally scrubbing. “You’ve already picked up my soup once today. It’s _my_ turn.”


	4. Sleep Looks Fetching On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale mulls over his newfound feelings for Crowley.

Aziraphale prided himself on being a fairly prepared person. He was the sort of person to always carry basic necessities with him everywhere, from water to bandages to handkerchiefs. He supposed his resourcefulness sparked from his urge to help people. However, he found that he was the one in need of help when he laid eyes on Crowley. Nothing, no warning in the world, could have prepared him for that moment. 

Perhaps it was the angle of the light. Perhaps it was the way Crowley’s hair fell in his eyes. Perhaps it was the odd yet sexy way Aziraphale’s clothes fit him, tight in the right places and just loose enough to make him look effortlessly careless, nearly _ethereal_. 

It was like he was seeing him through new eyes. His thoughts flew from _I never knew his collarbones were that gorgeous_ to _his hair looks like fire in this lighting_ to simply _OHHH MY GOODNESS_. 

Aziraphale felt his pulse speed, bringing too much color to his cheeks and stiffness to his fingers. The bowl of soup fell to the ground with a clatter, soup splashing this way and that. 

“Is it that bad?” Crowley asked, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. He smiled, as if it was a joke, but his tone conveyed more sadness than his face let on.

Aziraphale wanted to run to him, to hug him, to cup his sharp chin in his soft hand and whisper sweet nothings about how he looked _so damn good_ tonight. Alas, affection’s tongue is never eloquent, so Aziraphale found himself stammering nonsense as Crowley watched with confused amusement. 

He was only able to truly recover from his surprise when Crowley was on the ground, mopping up the soup _he_ had spilled. His strong sense of hospitality manners overtook any wanton urges that lurked deep within his heart as he argued with Crowley as to who should clean up the soup. 

“At least let me make you a new bowl,” Aziraphale insisted as Crowley rinsed the dish towel in the sink.

“Fine,” Crowley said, wringing it out and hanging it on a hook. “If anything, this whole ordeal has made me hungrier.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I’ll be sure to make it quickly then. But you shouldn’t be here.”

Crowley, who had just begun to feel comfortable in Aziraphale’s quarters, seized up. “Sorry. I can go, if you want. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“No, you shouldn’t be in the _kitchen_ ,” Aziraphale corrected, smile widening. “Go. You’re my guest, for heaven’s sake. You should be sitting down.” He shooed Crowley away, who was also smiling. Aziraphale left the kitchen with him and guided him towards a worn couch in a back corner of the bookshop. 

“Now, stay. I’ll be back with your soup. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable.”

“Course,” Crowley replied, grinning. He plopped down on the couch, curling his legs underneath him. His hands, partially obscured by his sleeves,were wrapped around his tea mug. Aziraphale felt his heart grow from the utterly soft visual it created. He quickly turned in hopes Crowley wouldn’t catch the faint flush that had climbed up his neck. 

He made his way back to the kitchen quickly, though he tried to be casual about it. No need for Crowley to question his haste. 

He was also quick to get his hands busy. Prepping the soup was a good distraction from whatever had happened _earlier_. Aziraphale bit his lip. He hoped Crowley didn’t think too poorly of him. 

He could only imagine the thoughts running through Crowley’s head right now; he must think him a complete fool, careless enough to drop _soup_. Aziraphale was convinced that Crowley had misunderstood his infatuation with disgust, and felt his heart sink. 

His conflicting feelings were taken out on the soup can via his can opener. He turned the crank with such vigor he was surprised it didn’t break. He got a bowl out from a cabinet and placed it a little less than gently on the counter. It clattered where it landed. 

“You okay in there?” Crowley called from the other room. 

“Me? I’m- I’m fine. Perfectly tickety-boo.” Aziraphale tried to ignore the involuntary quaver in his voice. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. 

He closed his eyes, rubbing them until he was seeing stars. _Why did he let his heart get the better of him_? He was completely hopeless, he supposed. He barely even _knew_ Crowley, for heaven’s sake. But he did feel a sort of kinship he hadn’t felt with anyone else before; a _connection_ deep in the bowels of his heart he couldn’t ignore. 

It was useless to think about it now; he had _soup_ to attend to, after all. 

The soup warmed much too quickly for his liking. It meant less time to process the night so far. Still, as soon as it was ready, he brought it out, careful with every step. No need to have two messes in one night. 

“Crowley! Your soup is read-” Aziraphale cut himself off when he turned to find Crowley reclined on the couch, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly. 

_Sleeping_ , Aziraphale realized. _He fell asleep._ His mouth opened slightly in disbelief, and then he gave a small _hmph_ of amusement, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. He was sure Crowley hadn’t meant to sleep, and was sure the he would be appalled when he woke up in the morning. Aziraphale had nothing at all against Crowley sleeping at his place, but knew Crowley would not have the same sentiment.

He set the soup down on a nearby coffee table and studied Crowley’s slumbering figure. Aziraphale’s overly large shirt had fallen open, exposing the milk white planes of Crowley’s chest and a singular sharp shoulder. His hair was tousled and his loose trousers had ridden up both legs. 

Surprisingly, Aziraphale felt strangely calm and not at all riled as he gazed upon Crowley. Something about his peaceful expression instilled a feeling of tranquility upon Aziraphale. He picked up a blanket from the arm of the couch and draped it over Crowley, smiling softly. 

“Sleep looks fetching on you, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, brushing a piece of Crowley’s hair out of his face. Crowley stirred under his touch, and Aziraphale jumped away as if Crowley’s face had burned him. 

He rose slowly, trying not to disturb Crowley further. He walked to the edge of the steps upstairs to his flat, ready to turn in himself, when he allowed himself one more long gaze at Crowley.

“Goodnight, dear,” he whispered, then turned off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gah sorry if this is moving slowly; it'll pick up soon I swear


	5. Call Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two make plans.

Most characters in works of literature tend to wake up in a new place and have no clue where they are, only to have the events of the previous night coming _flooding_ back to them (or some other cliche of the sort). This, however, was _not_ the case with Crowley, who awoke knowing exactly where he was and began his day by cursing colorfully at himself for falling asleep in a practical _stranger’s_ bookshop. 

He ran a hand through his hair, which was crinkled in odd places because he slept on it while it was wet. His mouth tasted sour, no doubt a sad memory of the tea he had the night before. 

The morning light filtered in, illuminating dust particles in the air and a cold bowl of soup on the table.

 _Shit_. Aziraphale had made the soup after all. Guilt deepened the pit in Crowley’s stomach. 

He tried to get up, but found his legs tangled in a blanket. The blanket was new, too. He groaned as he realized Aziraphale must have draped it over him as he slept, like a parent over a child. The visual made him shiver, but from disgust or longing he didn’t know. 

His pants (or rather, _Aziraphale’s_ pants) were bunched along his thighs, and the shirt had completely left one of his shoulders. He’d always had a poor habit of tossing and turning, and was surprised that he didn’t fall off the couch at some point through the night.

He untangled the blanket from his limbs and stretched before standing up. Judging from the sliver of sky he could see through a window of the bookshop, it was early in the day; morning had just poked her head over the horizon. A quick check on his phone confirmed his assumption; it was nearing six thirty in the morning. 

Crowley stood, wincing as the blood rushed from his head. He rolled his shoulders, relishing the freer feeling that came with the stretch. 

Being in Aziraphale’s shop when Aziraphale himself wasn’t present rubbed Crowley the wrong way. The atmosphere felt tight, as if his every move was slowly stretching it out of place. A certain quiet was present too, stuffy and tangible. Crowley was uncomfortable, unsure what his next move should be. 

If he waited until Aziraphale woke, he would have to deal with apologies. So many apologies. Aziraphale would smile his little smile, and brush it off, and offer him tea, and all Crowley would give back in return would be ‘I’m sorry.’ And it wouldn’t even mean anything. 

If he left, he would have to deal with questions. So many questions, most of them not spoken. They would be clear in Aziraphale’s eyes the next time they happened by each other; those two gorgeous blue windows to the soul wondering ‘why did you leave me? Was I that bad?’ 

Crowley couldn’t decide which option was worse. 

He stretched his lanky limbs a final time, and then, upon spying his now-dry clothes draped over a chair, changed. He felt slightly better in his own clothes, though he did miss the comforting smell of vanilla that seemed to waft from every fiber of his borrowed duds. He folded Aziraphale’s clothes, something he would never do were they his own, and sat on the couch to wait. 

Only a few minutes had to pass before Crowley’s leg was dancing with boredom, going up and down, creaking the old floorboards with every bounce. He went back and forth in his brain about whether he should stay or go, getting up at least four times, only to sit right back down again. 

Eventually, the plants were what made him leave. He thought of them, thought of how he didn’t water them last night due to the unforeseen circumstance. The plants were what brought him to the front door of the bookshop around seven, watching passerbys, hand hovering above the handle. But Aziraphale was what made him hesitate. 

His eyes raked over the bookshop, wondering if perhaps he should pop out and then come back. The option seemed good, but he didn’t want Aziraphale to think him needy, or stalkerish, or creepy. 

A notepad was on Aziraphale’s desk, flipped to a blank page, pen by its side, begging someone to use it. 

_A note_ , Crowley realized. _I’ll write him a note._ He practically pranced over to the desk, swooping up the pad and pen in one movement. 

His relief about finally having a logical course of action was short-lived; he knew he was going to _write_ a note, he just didn’t know what to put in it. 

_Dear Aziraphale_ , he penned, then scratched out, then ripped off completely. ‘Dear’ seemed to familial. Too friendly. Of course, it wasn’t as if Aziraphale hadn't called _him_ dear before, but that was just one of his quirks. If Crowley did it, it would be too odd, too… off-putting. It wasn’t like him to toss around dears here and there. 

_Aziraphale_ , he started instead, then tapped his face with the end of the pen, unsure of what to write next. 

After several more page rippings and crumplings, scratch outs and erasure, he settled on just writing his phone number and signing it. Hopefully it would reach Aziraphale somehow. 

Each time his phone rang later that day, Crowley and his heart leapt. After several telemarketers (“If I wanted a bloody _oil change_ , I’d ask for one!”) and one memorable wrong number conversation with an old lady (“So sorry to hear of Brad’s passing, but who the hell are you?”), Crowley was finally met with a familiar voice that evening. 

“Crowley?”

“Mmm?” His pulse sped and skipped while he tried desperately to sound cool.

“Oh, good, it _is_ you. Ah… hello. It’s Aziraphale.”

“And here I was, thinking it was the bloody _Queen_.”

Aziraphale ignored his sharp attempt at humor. “I got your note.”

“I gathered.” _Damn it. Why was he being so rude towards Aziraphale? He wanted cool, not frosty._ “Um. I wanted to thank you. And apologize. For sleeping. I hope-”

“It wasn’t a trouble at all,” Aziraphale interrupted, somehow knowing what Crowley was about to say. “If anything, it’s a compliment.”

“That I trust you enough to fall asleep in your presence?”

“Oh. That too, I suppose. I was thinking of the calming atmosphere of the bookshop.”

“Right.” Crowley blushed, ineffably glad the conversation was happening over the telephone. “Um. How’re the flowers holding up?”

“Marvelously,” Aziraphale replied. “Whatever you do to them in the shop, it works. I’ve never seen a bouquet last so long, and that’s even with my er… talent.”

Crowley grinned. Those daisies would _never_ droop if they knew what was good for them. 

“And how’s the book?”

“Uh…” Crowley thought back to his bedside table, where the book lay unopened, spine fresh. He couldn’t bring himself to read it. His attention span was never long enough. “It’s good.”

“What do you think of the messages? I find that the hedonistic associations are quite a marvel, especially with the way he portrays Dorian as this very… conflicted character.”

Crowley's throat made a scratchy noise as he tried to think of something to reply with. 

“Yes, it’s all very good.” He was eager to move on, in case Aziraphale delved further into the book, and scrambled for something to say. 

“Let’s have lunch,” he blurted. A silence on the line told him Aziraphale was surprised, and honestly, he was too. He wasn’t sure where the invitation had come from, he had just needed a way to effectively steer the conversation away from books. Apparently, his subconscious deemed a lunch date the best way to do that. 

“Were you thinking... tomorrow?” was Aziraphale’s first response.

“It doesn’t have to, if you don’t want. I just thought, you know, because of your niceness and all, it’d be a way for me to - I don’t know - repay you?”

“ _That_ was no strings attached _kindness_ , my dear,” Aziraphale said. “No one’s repaying anyone.”

“It’d make me feel better,” Crowley countered. He felt the line stall as Aziraphale considered. He smiled devilishly. He knew Aziraphale couldn’t resist this offer, especially if he convinced himself he was doing Crowley a favor by accepting.

“ _Well_ , I’m never one to turn down food. And you’re sure _this_ would make you feel better?”

Crowley nodded with earnest, then, remembering the conversation was over the phone, audibly stated his affirmation.

“Fine. Where shall we be dining?”

“I know a place. I can pick you up around… noon tomorrow?”

“Pick me up?”

“Unless you’d rather pay for a taxi. Or walk.”

“No, no, that’s fine. Noon is… fantastic.”

“Good to know.” Crowley faltered. He wasn’t sure he was ready for their conversation to be over, yet had nothing else to say to keep it going.

“Well. I’ll see you then, I suppose.”

“Right. Yeah.” 

“Noon.”

Crowley ‘mmed’ in confirmation.

“Guess this is goodbye. For now, at least.”

“Yeah.” _That’s all you say? Yeah? You’re a bleeding idiot_. “Um. Bye.”

Crowley listened to the click of Aziraphale hanging up. He didn’t understand why he had to be so awkward. He cringed at every word that left his mouth. He had always fancied himself a charmer, smooth as a snake (and twice as venomous). But somehow, this nonthreatening, soft mass of a tea-loving bookshop owner was able to reduce him to nothing but jelly. How?

Attraction was a strange and cruel thing, and Crowley wasn’t sure he liked it all that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do y'all want longer chapters?


	6. Oi, Shem!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley go out to lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to put Shem in here.

“Well, don’t you look dapper.” Crowley leaned out of his car window and gave Aziraphale a once-over. Aziraphale felt the heat of his stare and felt his nerve endings tingle. He self-consciously went to adjust his bowtie, and for good measure, dusted off the front of his jacket. He wasn’t sure how nice the lunch Crowley had invited him to would be, so he decided on something a little more formal than his usual wear. This might have been an oversight on his part, as his _usual_ outfits were already more formal than most people’s, but it was too late to change now.

“Hello to you too,” Aziraphale said, walking hesitantly closer. “What a lovely vehicle.”

Crowley’s car was sleek and black and matched his sunglasses, somehow. They looked like they were made for each other, both glossy ebony lined with silver. Crowley himself seemed to fit in too; he had traded his usual soft-tee-and-skinny-jeans look for something a little sharper and darker that accentuated his angles. The blazer he was wearing seemed perfectly made for him, so much so that Aziraphale wondered if it was. He didn’t seem like the tailoring type, but he supposed everyone had their quirks. ( _Still_ , he remembered, _nothing Crowley wears will ever make him look as good as he did in my clothes_.)

“Cost an arm and a leg,” Crowley said, referring to the car. “Been saving ever since I was young. Not every day you see a SoHo florist driving a _Bentley_.” He patted the seat beside him. “Get in.”

Aziraphale opened the door. The inside was pleasantly controlled, not too hot, not too cold. He wasn’t much of a rock fan (give him a Beethoven CD any day) but he could recognize the voice of Freddie Mercury when he heard it.

“Big Queen fan?” he asked, attempting conversation as Crowley backed on to the street. 

In response, Crowley cranked the volume dial higher. 

Aziraphale smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He stared out of the window, then back at Crowley. “Where exactly are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Crowley replied. 

Aziraphale considered himself a restaurant connoisseur, and had probably dined in over half of the places serving something edible in London. He wondered if he had been to the place Crowley was taking him before.

It evidently wasn’t far; Crowley stopped the car before “Bohemian Rhapsody” was over. 

“Why, we could’ve walked!” was Aziraphale’s comment as he got out of the car, smoothing his coat.

“Car’s faster. Besides, my lunch break isn’t that long.” Crowley stalked out from behind the vehicle, and Aziraphale noticed for the first time how unique his walk was. It was oddly sultry in a way; Crowley seemed to be aware of every little jerk of his knees and elbows yet had no idea what they were doing to Aziraphale.

“Surely you dictate your own lunch break,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grinned. “I’m already pushing it. Most days it’s just a biscuit and black coffee.”

He laughed at Aziraphale’s horrified expression. “Cheer up. I’m eating with you now, aren’t I?”

Crowley led the way into the cafe, which never would have caught Aziraphale’s eye if he hadn’t strolled in. The outside was slightly dingy, with grime coating the edges of the windows and awning (which itself was a distasteful shade of yellow). The inside was poorly lit, and several of the tables were only made for two. 

“Shem!” Crowley called. A muscular man emerged from behind a counter at the back of the restaurant. 

“Anthony! What can I do for you?” His voice was deep and calming.

“Table for two.” 

The man (presumably Shem) glanced over at Aziraphale. 

“No longer dining alone, I see? Right this way.”

Shem seated them at a table in the back corner, giving Crowley a pat on the back.

“Friend of yours?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley shrugged. “Suppose so. I’m a regular.”

Aziraphale went to pick up the menu, but Crowley gently stopped him. 

“No need.” He twisted around in his chair, facing the counter. “Oi Shem!”

“Yeah?”

“Can I get one of those sample platters?” 

“Course.” Shem winked at the two of them and then exited to the kitchen.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale, grinning. “Trust me, it’s the best way to go.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” They sat in silence until Shem brought out water, and then Aziraphale attempted to make conversation.

“How’d you come by this place?” 

Crowley glanced at him over his sunglasses, which he hadn’t removed (despite being inside). “Shem’s an old family friend. Our dads knew each other. S’nice to support him.” He pointed over to a bouquet on a table next to them. “He returns the favor.”

Aziraphale sipped his water. “How kind.”

Crowley grunted in agreement. “What about you? Have any… favorite restaurants?”

“I mean, none that I’m a regular at,” Aziraphale replied. “I find variety to be the spice of life.”

“I think that the true spice of life is cumin, but to each his own.” Shem had snuck up on them laden with a few platters of food. There were dips, flatbreads, rice, and saucy meats. It all smelled heavenly.

“Well, I’ll leave you be,” Shem said, smiling deviously at Crowley after he had filled up their water glasses. Crowley gave him a wicked side-eye. 

Aziraphale was hesitant to dig into the food. He felt like a guest, despite the fact that it wasn’t _really_ Crowley’s restaurant. 

Crowley gestured to the plates. “Please, enjoy.” He took his own plate and ladled some meat and sauce over rice. 

Aziraphale reached out and took a piece of flatbread and dipped it in a tannish sauce with red flecks. He tentatively sniffed it, and then took a bite. 

At once an explosion of flavors emerged. His tongue burned from the red flakes, which were obviously some kind of pepper, but was soothed by the bread and spread. This sensation, combined with the earthy and savory taste of the food, caused Aziraphale to unwittingly utter a small moan. “This is _heavenly_.”

“Just wait ‘till you try the babaganoush,” Crowley said, delight plain on his sharp features. “It’s their best dish by far.” He pushed a plate of thick cream colored spread towards him, and Aziraphale gratefully accepted it. 

“Why, you aren’t eating!” Aziraphale exclaimed, halfway through their meal. He had already polished off the babaganoush and was helping himself to some falafel. 

“Got a small stomach,” Crowley explained. “Don’t feel hungry often, either.” He paused before adding, “also, I’m a fast eater.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale turned back to his plate. “So, tell me. What’s it like being a florist? I’d imagine lots of plants.”

Crowley peered at him over his sunglasses, and Aziraphale was struck by the unique color. They were so hazel, they looked almost yellow in the dim lighting.

“Actually, I really don’t see many plants,” Crowley said, stroking his chin. “They just grow themselves, really. Quite independent things, plants are.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Crowley smirked. “No, that was a joke. I see plants almost every day of my life. Probably’ll be seeing ‘em in death, too.”

“Ah. OK.” Aziraphale’s mood was slightly dampened by the fact that he hadn’t picked up on Crowley’s sarcasm. He studied the man opposite him, curious. All the times he had met Crowley before, he had seemed awkward. Uncomfortable. But now, Aziraphale was the bumbling one, and Crowley was acting like they had known each other their entire lives. 

“What’s on your mind?” Crowley asked, scrutinizing Aziraphale’s gaze. “You’re looking at me like I’ve got a snake for a head.”

“Just wondering,” Aziraphale answered. “How is it that a man such as yourself can be so awkward one day and so suave the next?”

“The moon cycles,” Crowley said, deadpan, then grinned. “You think I’m suave?”

Aziraphale flushed. “Only if you play your cards right.” He stared out at the wasteland of empty plates before him. “I’ll be paying.”

“Too late.” Crowley rose from his chair before offering Aziraphale his hand. “Already did.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “You fiend.”

Crowley said nothing, but his grin widened.

Aziraphale huffed. “I suppose I’ve been played for a sucker, haven’t I?” He took Crowley’s hand.

“I suppose you have.” Crowley helped Aziraphale out of his chair. “Lift back to the bookshop?”

“Ah- why not?” They exited the restaurant. Crowley’s hand had left Aziraphale’s after he had lifted him from his seat, but it seemed reluctant to completely remove itself from the vicinity. Their two hands danced around each other, not quite touching, locked in an inescapable game.

The drive back to the bookshop was mostly quiet, the silence only punctuated by the vocals of Freddie Mercury and the scratching of Aziraphale’s pen. The bookshop owner had found a notebook in his pocket and was writing-- _something_. Crowley couldn’t tell; he kept his eyes on the road for the most part, and Aziraphale was quick to turn the paper away when he found his eyes wandering. 

He only found out as he watched the back of Aziraphale retreat into his bookshop. Crowley opened the door and swung himself inside. He was nearly ready to head back to his flower shop when he saw a note on the passenger’s seat.

_Dear Crowley,_

_I had a magnificent time today. Even though you said it was “returning a favor,” I insist you join me for dinner on Friday night. I’ve got everything covered. Meet me at the bookshop at seven._

_Aziraphale_

_P.S. I’m paying this time._

_P.P.S. Wear something nice._

Crowley couldn’t help but grin. So this is what Aziraphale was hiding from him.

 _Well. Friday night it is_ , Crowley thought. _If only there was a way to make time go faster._


	7. Dining At The Ritz (We'll Meet At Seven, Precisely)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley... dine at the Ritz.

Crowley spent the majority of his Friday worrying. Not the “oh dear, I hope everything turns out all right” kind of worry; this was more of the “oh fuck, it’ll all be shit” kind. The kind that makes your palms constantly sweat, your mind blank, and your mood down. And it was all because of his dinner with Aziraphale.

The days leading up to it hadn’t been as bad; he’d pushed it to the back of his mind. Business at the flower shop was heightening (it always did in February, right around Valentine’s Day). Making sure his plants were OK became his top priority. In fact, he nearly forgot about the dinner until Aziraphale had left a message Thursday night reminding him.

Which was why he found himself fretting, talking to his plants without the usual sharp tone, and fiddling with the hem of his shirt moments before he had to be at the bookshop. 

“Tucked. Untucked. Tucked?” Crowley fussed with his shirt, stuffing it in and out of his waistband. He turned to a plant. “What d’you think?”

The plant seemed to nod. 

“Tucked it is, then.” 

Crowley didn’t own many nice clothes. That wasn’t to say his clothes were shabby in any way; they just weren’t suited for a nice dinner. He tended to gravitate towards his own comfort and style without giving two leaves about what the general public thought of him, but he really didn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale. He had spent a good part of the day digging in his closet, searching for something,  _ anything _ that would be fine to wear to dinner. 

He eventually procured a slightly wrinkled but extremely soft button-up shirt with a subtle floral print. He couldn’t recall exactly where he had gotten it; in fact, he wasn't sure it was his in the first place (it looked remarkably similar to a shirt one of his exes used to wear). It was almost blouse-like in nature, due to the flowiness of it. It rippled over his frame like water.

He put much less effort into his lower half, donning his cleanest pair of chinos and his nicer pair of boots. He decided to throw on his blazer, too. It was the only one he owned, and he had worn it to the last meal with Aziraphale, but it was comfortable and looked good. Of course, his outfit wouldn’t feel complete without his usual sunglasses. 

Crowley pulled on a strand of his hair. He wasn’t sure exactly how he should do it. He normally just threw it up in a half-assed ponytail or bun, and it would eventually fall down. Running his brush through his hair, he debated what hairstyle would look best. He’d never tried doing a braid before, and was completely certain he would fail abysmally should he try to attempt it now. He spritzed it with water, parted it three different ways, and put it into pigtails before deciding it just looked the best natural, clouding around his head like flames. 

He grabbed his keys and phone, quickly checked his reflection, and hopped into the car. It was already five past seven. 

His foot teased the gas pedal as he drove through London, inching further downward with every second. He arrived at the bookshop not even a minute later. 

Aziraphale was waiting on the stoop, nose in a book. Crowley honked to get his attention. Aziraphale jumped, then smiled. 

“Crowley!” He wandered closer to the car. “Lovely evening.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, leaning out the window. “C’mon, get in.” Aziraphale opened the door and slid on to the seat. 

“Those’re for you,” Crowley spoke, jutting a thumb to the backseat. A bouquet of purple flowers lay there. 

“Oh! Thank you. I- I didn’t think to bring anything.” Aziraphale wrung his hands. 

“You’re paying for dinner, that’s enough.” Crowley stomped on the gas pedal once more, speeding down the street. Aziraphale was thrown back. 

“Has anyone ever told you you drive too fast?” he asked Crowley, who had developed a slightly troubling, fanatic glint in his eye. 

“A couple policemen. Why?” Crowley grinned. Aziraphale huffed. 

“Just- mind the road. Like you said, I’m paying for dinner. No need to pay for a  _ speeding ticket _ .” 

Crowley smiled in response, but it fell once he realized something. “Where are we going?”

“Oh! Right. Of course. You don’t know.” Aziraphale peered out of the window, trying to find a street sign. “Turn left here.”

Crowley spun the steering wheel, veering left. Aziraphale paled and clutched the armrest for dear life. 

“Why didn’t you go this fast the last time?” Aziraphale asked. “Turn right.”

Crowley complied, turning down the road, and then answered his question. “I didn’t want to scare you away.”

“And now? Keep straight.”

“Now you’re no longer a stranger.” Crowley shifted in his seat, angling himself towards Aziraphale. His grin showed off sharp teeth, the gleam from them nearly pearlescent. They pierced his heart, wrenching it in a way not entirely unpleasant. 

He coughed and cleared his throat, a pink flush appearing on his cheeks. “Go right again. We should be there soon.”

The rest of the altogether short ride was spent in silence. 

“We’re here.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley to gauge his reaction. 

Crowley looked at the window, curious as to what formal restaurant they were dining at. 

“Oh, get  _ out _ . You didn’t.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide, peering over his sunglasses. “The  _ Ritz _ ? You’re mad.”

Aziraphale looked rather pleased with himself. “I did. Now come along.”

“How the hell did you manage  _ this _ ?” Crowley murmured as he parked and got out. 

“It’s quite miraculous, honestly,” Aziraphale confessed. “I simply called and they had a table for tonight.”

“You’re lying.” Crowley followed Aziraphale down the street and into the restaurant. 

“Not entirely.” Aziraphale’s eyes were full of mirth when he turned to hold the door open for Crowley. “It helps being friends with some of the management.”

Crowley swung his head to the side, then let it hang down. “Of course. Of  _ course _ . Why am I not surprised?” 

Aziraphale shot him a quick smile, and then turned to the hostess. “Reservation under Fell, please.”

“Right this way, sir.” The hostess led them around tables with happy patrons dining. The restaurant was full of clinks and conversation.

“Here we are. Your waiter will be with you shortly.” 

Crowley pulled out a seat, then offered it to Aziraphale, who had been taking off his coat. 

“Oh! Thank you.” He draped his coat over the back and sat down. Crowley sauntered around the other side of the table and slunk into his seat. He hesitated for a moment, then removed his sunglasses.

“Why do you wear those?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley pocketed them.

Crowley gaped for a moment, at a loss for words. “Don’t know, really. Just started wearing them one day, and now it feels weird to have ‘em off.”

“Well, your eyes are lovely.” 

Crowley blushed. 

“It’s true!” Aziraphale found Crowley’s eyes impeccably unique. They were very bright, very hazel, and very startling. 

“Shut up,” Crowley groaned. “I swear, if you keep on like this, the sunglasses are going back on.”

A waiter approached them and introduced himself as Dan. “Can I get you started with some drinks?”

They looked at each other. “I might have some champagne,” Aziraphale started. 

“Sounds good to me,” Crowley followed. 

“Are you looking for a specific type?” Dan asked. 

Aziraphale considered. “Whatever’s the nicest,” he replied, glancing at Crowley furtively. 

Crowley, meanwhile, was staring at the various plants around the dining room, eyebrows raised slightly with worry.

“You’d think in a restaurant as nice as this, they’d be able to afford better plants,” he stated. “I could make a candle with that leaf, it’s so waxy.”

Aziraphale followed his gaze. “It looks fine to me.”

“It’s suffering,” Crowley said. “You know, I wonder if I could…” He picked up his water glass and got out of his seat. 

“Crowley? Where are you going?” Aziraphale watched as his date made his way through the restaurant, weaving around tables, until he reached the poor plant. Crowley tipped his water glass over it, letting it drizzle down. 

Aziraphale’s hand flew over his mouth as a wait staff approached Crowley; they exchanged words. He saw Crowley flush, and soon he stalked back to his seat.

“It was a bloody fake plant,” Crowley said as he sat down. “That’s why it looked so waxy.”

Aziraphale bit down on his tongue to keep from laughing. “It was an admirable effort, my dear.” He pointed at his champagne flute, which Dan-the-waiter had brought while Crowley had been by the plant. “Drinks are here.”

“Brilliant. I don’t think I can process this humiliation sober.” Crowley downed the drink in one swig. Aziraphale could no longer conceal his laughter. 

“You’ll probably need something a little stronger than that.”

The rest of dinner passed in the same lighthearted manner. They found themselves engaged in perfectly satisfying chatter, never at a loss of what to say. By the time dessert was served, both Aziraphale and Crowley were stuffed and buzzing with happiness.

“I know this is technically  _ your _ night,” Crowley started as he watched Aziraphale stab his fork into tiramisu. “With your treating me to this lovely dinner and all, but I have an idea.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Do elaborate.”

Crowley shook his head to clear it. A bit of cream was left on Aziraphale’s lip, and Crowley had found himself mesmerized by watching Aziraphale’s tongue lick it away.

“Erm. Right. The idea.” Crowley glanced away. His hands itched to put on his sunglasses. “I was hoping it could be a surprise.”

Aziraphale considered this. “What sort of surprise?”

“A good one. I hope.” Crowley finally got the confidence to stare deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes, which shone cobalt with delight and anticipation. “Do you trust me?”

Aziraphale grinned coyly. “Perhaps.”

Crowley’s yellowish eyes glinted with mischief. “Then grab your coat and let’s go.” He rose from his seat with a flourish.

Aziraphale protested through a mouth of cream and cake. “Crowley, I haven’t paid.”

“Hurry, then.” Crowley’s foot tapped impatiently. “I want to give you an experience you’ll never forget.”


	8. I Can't Give You The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley do some stargazing.

Streetlights flew past on either side of the car like artificial shooting stars. The sky had darkened rather rapidly, and now was a large expanse of navy above the world. 

“Should you be driving?” Aziraphale turned to Crowley, who was clenching the steering wheel. They had been going at a steady but speedy pace out of London for about a half an hour. 

“Mmm, why shouldn’t I?” Crowley leaned forward to try and see the road better. He, being the stubborn bastard he was, hadn’t taken off his sunglasses. They were getting further and further away from the city, which meant less and less lights surrounding them. Still, the glasses remained. 

“You had champagne,” Aziraphale explained.

“Ah, it wasn’t that much.” Crowley tapped a finger on the wheel, and turned his head around as if looking for something. “There’s hardly anyone on the roads, and we’re almost here.”

Aziraphale looked out the window, but couldn’t see very much in the dark. “Where exactly is here?”  
Crowley veered sharply onto a side road, much less paved and altogether more shady than the one they had come from. “You’ll see.”

Aziraphale was wary. Crowley was leading him down a side road, at  _ night _ . No one knew they were going there, and Crowley was being awfully cryptic about where ‘there’ even  _ was _ . They were, despite their sudden relationship, practically  _ strangers _ . They had only known each other for a week,  _ if _ that. In Aziraphale’s head, this was pointing to only one outcome: murder.

He could imagine the headlines:  _ SoHo Bookseller Murdered After Dining With Murderer Posing As Incredibly Handsome Florist! Gullible Fool Lured Away By Murderer’s Wiles! _

Aziraphale looked around and patted his pockets for anything that could be used as a weapon, if it did come to that. He had his keys in his pocket, but not much else. Eyes darting around Crowley’s car, he spied a lighter sitting between them on the large armrest. 

_ Keys and a lighter _ . It wasn’t a flaming sword, but he supposed it would be fine if the situation arose. He tried to discreetly take the lighter, but jolted forward when Crowley slammed on the breaks. 

“We’re here,” he whispered to Aziraphale, who was trying and failing to not appear frightened. 

Crowley turned off the car and stepped out. Aziraphale could make out his shadowy figure, stretching out his arms and breathing in deeply.

“Come on!” Aziraphale reluctantly unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. He clutched his keys and the lighter tightly in his fist, so much so that it began to hurt. 

“Did you ever see something so  _ beautiful _ ?” Crowley spun underneath the sky, facing up. Aziraphale followed suit, turning his eyes up to the sky, and gasped. 

He had never seen so many stars before. He supposed it was because he usually stayed in cities with people, and lights that drowned out the magnificent sight he was seeing before him currently. 

There were too many stars to count. It looked like someone had spilled dust over a blanket, but luminous dust,  _ glorious _ dust, dust that contained the dreams of children and fulfilled wishes. All the old books, all the crepes and cakes, all the pleasure in the world couldn’t amount to this sight. 

It was hard, but eventually he tore his gaze away from the sky and down to the second prettiest sight that evening: Crowley.

Crowley still had his nose turned up at the sky, the light from the stars reflecting pinpricks on his sunglasses. Aziraphale giggled behind his hand. 

_ Not murder _ , he thought.  _ He dragged me here for the stars _ . 

Aziraphale approached Crowley cautiously, not wanting to break his tranquil spell. He inched closer, and then reached out and plucked Crowley’s sunglasses off of his face. 

“Wha— hey!” Crowley snapped, neck immediately shifting back to its normal position. 

“Shh.” Aziraphale pointed back at the sky. “I’ll bet it’s a lot prettier without those in the way.”

Crowley glanced up again, and Aziraphale could see him falling in love with the sky. 

“It’s not the only thing that looks prettier without sunglasses on,” he ventured, sidling closer to Crowley. Something about the cover of darkness was infectious, putting him in an oddly flirtatious mood. He wasn’t sure he hated this newfound confidence. 

“Come.” Crowley dropped to the ground, struggling with his long limbs before reclining completely on the grass. “Better view from down here.”

Aziraphale hesitated. Nothing sounded more appealing than lying with Crowley under a sky full of magic, but he didn’t want to ruin his coat. It was rather expensive, and he’d kept it in tip-top condition for the long time he’d had it. Crowley had shown no concerns about lying in the grass, and Aziraphale felt it was too trivial an issue to bring up. Crowley would probably laugh at him, say he was being uptight, fussy, and pretentious. 

Crowley caught Aziraphale’s reluctance. “You OK?” 

“Ah— yes. Just… don’t want to ruin the coat, you know.” 

Crowley snorted. “Take it off, then.” His gaze returned to the sky, every bit as mesmerized as it had been the first time. 

Aziraphale shrugged off his coat, feeling silly for not thinking of the obvious solution. The night air wasn’t as chilly as he thought. The breeze that would occasionally rustle through the meadow and his hair actually felt quite nice, like sliding into cold sheets in the summertime. 

He crouched and joined Crowley on the grassy ground. Their heads were nearly touching. 

“Look.” Crowley extended an arm up, pointing at the stars. “That’s Hydra, the water snake.” 

“Where?” Aziraphale searched the dark sky. 

“The constellation. See?” Crowley reached over, and using two fingers, gently tilted Aziraphale’s head in the right direction. “It starts with that bright star over there, and… sort of goes on, like that.” His finger traced the sky, painting pictures that started to come to life in Aziraphale’s mind.

“I can see it… a bit.” Aziraphale squinted. “Regardless, it still is a beautiful sight, constellations or no.”

“And there’s Canis Major and Minor.” Crowley pointed to an area a little to the right of where Hydra was. 

“The Greater and Lesser Dogs,” Aziraphale translated. He had learned a bit of Latin when he was younger, and was surprised he remembered any at all. 

“Look at you!” Crowey finally ripped his eyes away from the sky to look at Aziraphale appraisingly. “I didn’t know you spoke Latin.”

“I don’t. Not really.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “And you’re one to talk, Mr. I-Know-All-The-Constellations.”

Crowley laughed. “What can I say? It was a phase. A phase I’m not exactly sure I left, to be honest.”

“So you were one those kids, huh? With your head in the clouds, always wondering about… what’s  _ beyond _ ?” Aziraphale was surprised at his own tone. He didn’t know his voice could carry that much mockery. 

Corlwye, however, didn’t seem to mind. “I guess so, yeah. Always wanting to get lost in space, me. My parents always  _ hated _ when I asked questions they couldn’t answer.”

“What did they do?” Aziraphale asked, only half-paying attention. He, too, had started to find himself lost in the stars, and asked the question only to carry on the conversation.

“Well. My mum—” Crowley’s voice grew thick with emotion. “My mum left.”

Aziraphale’s deep breaths were punctuated with a gasp. That most certainly was not the answer he’d been expecting. “Oh, Crowley…”

“I mean, it happened so long ago, I don’t even think about it anymore.” Crowley swallowed. “She got tired of all my questions, I guess. It was just… one day she was here, and I was asking her about why the sun was so bright, and why the sky is blue, and what stars are named, and she’d go ‘I don’t know, Anthony’ and pat me on the head. And then she wasn’t. I had to go to my dad with the questions then, but they were a lot more… specific. You know, ‘why’d Mum leave?’ and ‘where’d she go?’ and ‘was it ‘cause of me?’ 

“And my dad, you know, he wasn’t the nurturing type. He was… distant. I stopped trying to bridge the gap between us after a year.” Crowley paused for a breath. “I made it through school, scraped enough together, and came here. Couldn’t afford enough to make it through college, to become an astronomer. So I— um, I settled for plants instead.”

There was a long pause. 

“You know,” Aziraphale began, his voice as gentle as the wind that blew through the grass, “I had a single parent, too. My mum. She kicked my dad out. He was always rather fond of his hard liquor. I don’t think I ever saw him sober.” He gave a sad little chuckle. “He was always… dripping with sin, in a way. If that makes sense. Don’t know  _ why _ my mother married him, honestly.” He once again tried to conceal his true feelings with a laugh, this one sounding more strangled than the last. 

“And then one day, it got too much for her.” The screaming of that fateful night still echoed in his nightmares. 

That was the day he found out what true pain sounded like, and what true fear felt like. Both seized his heart, made it hard to breathe, and were overall not very pleasant. They were so raw. So powerful. And made him feel powerless.

“So then it was just— me and her. She was the one who wanted me to open a bookshop. She taught me everything I knew, told me to be nice to everyone, to treat everyone with respect. She used to call me her Angel. I— I always loved it when she did that.” Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “And she… passed. Just last year. Of cancer.”

Crying wasn’t something Aziraphale did freely in front of others. His father had tried to punch it out of him, called him a pansy, a wimp, a fag. And yet, here he was, cheeks and eyes wet, in front of Crowley. Even the wind and crickets weren’t enough to drown out his loud sobs. 

Crowley rolled over to face Aziraphale, eyebrows upturned in concern. He didn’t say anything, and didn’t appear able to. His eyes were shiny and brimming with emotion.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale tried to say, but it came out as more of a gasp-whisper through his tears. “I’m ruining the moment.” He swiped at his eyes, trying to harness his pain, his fears, which all seemed to have come tumbling out of him like a pile of oranges when one at the bottom is removed. 

Crowley still hadn’t said anything. Aziraphale was convinced that he, like his own father, now saw him as weak and emotional and was repulsed. 

The last thing he wanted to do was look at Crowley to see his expression, but he found himself turning to face him anyways. 

Through his tearstained lashes, he could make out Crowley’s face and the stars behind him. They blurred together, like headlights through a rainy window, creating rays around Crowley’s head. It was nearly like a halo of stars. 

Crowley himself was harder to read, and not just because of the tears obscuring Aziraphale’s vision. He had  _ never _ been good at picking up social cues, especially when they related to facial expressions, and the fact that Crowley was so good at hiding his emotions wasn’t helping. 

Aziraphale gazed deep into Crowley’s eyes, trying to decipher what feeling was behind them. He leaned in, hoping to glean some form of  _ anything _ from their olive depths. Was he seeing regret? Hope? Happiness?

He was close enough to realize that Crowley’s eyes were wet, too. He was close enough to feel his warm breath that still smelled like alcohol. And he was definitely close enough for Crowley to ever-so-subtly lean in and press his lips to Aziraphale’s.

At first, Aziraphale didn’t notice a difference. It was so fast, so soft, so undeniably tender that it seemed to fall right into place with the rest of the evening. When Crowley shifted over, cradling Aziraphale’s back, he finally became aware.  _ Crowley. He’s kissing me. He’s kissing me and… I love it. _

It felt so natural, being in Crowley’s arms. He treated Aziraphale as one would a rare flower, pressing just enough care and comfort on him without being overbearing or needy. He rubbed Aziraphale on the back, tracing circles that seemed to say  _ I understand. I have you. I’m holding you. I’ve got you, and I won’t let go till you say so. Everything will be alright. I promise. _

Their tears mingled where their faces touched, a reminder of the shared memories earlier in the evening. It only heightened the emotional experience, turning their first kiss into something therapeutic and altogether more intimate than anything they had ever experienced. 

The stars twinkled above them. The meadow stood still. When they finally broke apart, an eternity had passed, filled with salt, emotion, and love. 

Despite ending the kiss, they maintained their eye contact. Aziraphale was the first to speak, tired of the crickets being the only noise to fill the void their kiss had left. 

“Thank you.” He didn’t mean for it to be whispered, but was afraid his voice would crack into a million pieces if he raised the volume. 

“No,” Crowley replied. “Thank  _ you _ .” 

“I didn’t do anything.”

Crowley smiled, but his eyes were still sad. “You did. You understand.” He leaned in and brought Aziraphale close to him, not in a kiss, but in a hug that was somehow just as intimate. He savored Aziraphale’s vanilla-and-almond scent, basked in it, let it comfort his senses like buttered bread. He only let him go when he heard Aziraphale yawn in his ear. 

“It’s— it’s late.” His fingers toyed with the clover growing at his left side. “You’re tired. I should get you home.”

Aziraphale was too tired to argue. “That… sounds good.” 

“Here,” Crowley said. Aziraphale looked up. Crowley was offering him a bouquet of wildflowers he had plucked from the meadow around them. 

“It’s a… memento. I can’t give you the stars, but… this will have to be enough.” 

Aziraphale took them slowly, letting his hand linger over Crowley’s as he grabbed the stems. “But you did.”

“I did what?”

“You  _ did _ give me the stars, dear.” Aziraphale’s voice was gentle, and Crowley was sure his heart would break.  _ How could something so soft shatter his heart? _

Crowley rose, stretched, and then offered his hand to Aziraphale’s.

“If you say so.” He gave Aziraphale a quirky grin. Aziraphale took his hand and pulled himself up off the ground. 

“Let’s get you home.” 

Aziraphale murmured in agreement. The two set off, arm in arm, back to the car.

The drive home was a quiet one, the silence carried over from the tranquility of the meadow. Even Crowley didn’t turn on Queen, despite knowing the perfect song for the moment. He was afraid it would fall through the delicate atmosphere present. 

When he finally pulled up in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop, Aziraphale was practically asleep. He reached over and gently shook him, trying to wake him up. 

“We’re here.” He spoke softly. 

Aziraphale jolted awake. “Hm? So sorry, dear, I must have dozed off. Right. Well.” The wildflowers were still clutched in his fist. 

“You’ll be off, then?” Crowley didn’t bother to conceal the sorrow in his voice.

“I’ll be off, then,” Aziraphale repeated, sounding just as depressed. He collected the other bouquet Crowley had given him at the beginning of the evening, which felt like an eternity ago. 

He could hear Crowley already start the engine before he even made it through the doorway of his bookshop. He sighed. Everything he had experienced: the kiss, the emotion, the  _ truth _ of it all… he felt grounded yet unstable. Or perhaps he was just tired.

Aziraphale let his eyes wander around the bookshelves, peering over shelves that were more familiar to him than anything else, when he spotted the daisies in a corner. The fateful flowers that brought him and Crowley together. 

He walked over to them, carrying the two other bouquets Crowley had given him. Transferring the two bundles to one arm, he reached out. The petals had just begun to brown, but didn’t crumble at his touch. 

An idea struck him. A way to keep Crowley’s gifts forever, preserving the love and care that came along with them. His energy renewed, he brightened the lights of the bookshop, gathered his materials, and set out to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it would get better (this is what I interpret as getting better. If you don't think it's better, feel free to leave, cause it doesn't get more RAW THAN THIS)


	9. A Rose By Any Other Name, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale reflect on the events of the previous evening.

“I don’t know. I just think, you know, that maybe I acted too soon.” Crowley showered the plant nearest to him with both his thoughts and water. “I don’t even know what compelled me to do it. It was just… he was crying. And I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, and… is that a spot?”

The plant, which had been considering brushing Crowley with its leaves in a comforting way, immediately shirked at Crowley’s return to a sharper tone of voice. 

“Oh,  _ man up _ ,” Crowley bitched. “If I wasn’t running a business, I would toss you out the window,” he said as he trimmed the affected leaf off and checked the others to make sure the spot hadn’t spread. 

Satisfied with his examination, he continued to vent. “I don’t think it was a pity kiss. I wanted to do it. And I didn’t feel bad for him, exactly.”

The plant looked at him, questioningly appalled. 

“Well, obviously I did feel  _ bad _ , just… that wasn’t the reason I kissed him!” 

The plant seemed to say  _ you sure about that, buddy? _

Crowley scoffed. “Oh, what are you, some sort of therapist? You are? Well, you’re fired. I’ll find someone with a better attitude to talk to. Remember: all of this luxury? Water once a day? Nice, lovely lights and delicious fertilizer? I could take it all away. So you should grow  _ better _ . And Lord help us all,  _ drop the SASS _ .”

He stalked away, doing a voiceless lip trill in dismissal. 

“Well, you’re looking a bit peaky.” He dumped a gratuitous amount of water on a houseplant in the corner. “What d’you think? Did I kiss him out of pity?”

The plant said nothing, either due to the fear it might say the wrong thing, or because it was a plant, and therefore lacked a mouth and vocal cords. 

“Oh,  _ shut up, _ ” Crowley replied nevertheless. “I swear, I didn’t. I wanted to do it. At least I think I did.” He stopped for a moment and considered the events of the previous night, trying to recall the precise emotions he felt in the moment. 

“And I  _ did _ enjoy it,” he added. “Suppose that’s a bit sick, considering he was crying. But I didn’t enjoy the crying part, I guess. Just the… kissing. I think.”

What Crowley wanted to say, and what his inarticulate brain and tongue were trying to say, was that it had been magnificent. It had been the loveliest experience of his life, having Aziraphale in his arms. Nothing had ever felt like it had fit before, but when Aziraphale, tears and all, curled up like a vulnerable child in his grasp, he had felt completed by a tenderness like no other. His heart was reduced to a mush along with his brain, intoxicated with vanilla-almond fumes. He felt like he was finally home.

Crowley shook his head to clear it. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable feeling so much. It was an entirely new experience, being so comfortable with another person. He had spent most of his life asking questions, but wasn’t used to getting answers. Aziraphale was the greatest answer, the  _ only  _ answer, to all the burning questions that hid deep inside his heart. He wasn’t sure what was more painful: having unanswered questions and knowing they never would be answered, or having the answers in reach but more unclear than ever. 

Sighing, Crowley undid his bun and then retied it, including all of the smaller strands that had come loose. 

“And of course there was the whole thing with the traumatic pasts.” He looked to a small succulent at his left. “Who knew we both had daddy issues?”

_ And he lost his mother too, the poor thing _ . They had obviously been close, based on the way Aziraphale was sobbing last night. Crowley’s own mother had left before he had gotten too attached; they  _ had _ a bond, of course, but it was a twig rather than a thick root, easily able to return to seed once neglect was present. She wasn’t the nurturing type of parent. The only reason he went to her with questions as opposed to his father was because she hurled hurtful words rather than fists. 

He never made any attempts to reach out to her over the years. His father had let it slip that she had moved to New York in the States when Crowley was fifteen. He had no idea if she was still there, or if she was even alive. 

Crowley’s father was  _ definitely _ still alive. The last time he had talked to him was two years prior (their relationship had only gotten worse as they’d aged). Somehow, he’d gotten his number, and had called the shop one day. Crowley had found out that his father had remarried a woman only five years older than Crowley was, and that he had a teenaged half-sibling. 

The conversation came back to Crowley in the dark hours of night when he tossed and turned in his black sheets. It had mainly consisted of awkward mumbling on his father’s end and the occasional grunt on his. He wondered if he should’ve made more effort to reconnect. 

Aziraphale’s confession had brought Crowley’s mind back to the phone conversation. Somehow, Aziraphale’s lack of parents made Crowley wonder if he was taking his existing parental figures for granted. 

While Crowley was watering plants while having an emotional crisis, Aziraphale was trying to read (emphasis on  _ trying _ ).

He was never one to turn down a book. Whether it be archaic or contemporary, fiction or truth, he’d gladly devour the words and thirst for more. But on that one particular afternoon, he found himself yearning not for fictitious tales of sorrows and love, but for Crowley.

Every time he blinked, he couldn’t help but be transported back to the night before, under the stars, Crowley’s eyes gazing into his, a whirlwind of emotions exchanged between them every second. The floral scent of Crowley’s entire being, embedded into every inch of his person from constant exposure. The cool breeze that tickled his arms through his shirtsleeves, coat lying abandoned next to him. 

It was a slow day in the shop, and Aziraphale was as grateful as ever. He was always happy when there weren’t many customers, but this gave him time to process his thoughts over a nice cup of tea. 

As the chamomile scent enveloped him, Aziraphale finally got himself to remember the not-so-fun parts of the evening. Namely, the moment where he lost himself completely and dissolved into tears. 

It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Not the crying, exactly, just the… opening up. Crowley had, after all, shared his somewhat tragic past, and Aziraphale felt that it was only right that he share his. He never would have guessed it had gone that far. He’d thought he was over his mother’s death. He’d never been to any therapist, but… he tried to live life knowing she wouldn’t like it if he was sad. But confessing it to Crowley, underneath a sky full of magic he was sure his mother would have loved, it felt like it had only happened yesterday. Who knew closed wounds could hurt the worst?

What surprised him the most was how Crowley didn’t seem bothered by it. And it wasn’t in a psychopathic way, where his crying rendered Crowley indifferent, or even gave him pleasure. No, Crowley had definitely felt something. Even though his face was a mask of coolness, his eyes had practically dripped with empathy. And then, of course, rather than backing away, or calling him weak, Crowley had leaned in and kissed him. 

Aziraphale sipped his tea, a poor imitation of what kissing Crowley had felt like. It was just as warm, but Crowley’s mouth was softer than the delicate porcelain of the mug. His tea filled him with heat, but a different kind than the sort he had felt last night. It lacked the love and tears, the  _ impact _ Crowley’s kiss had reeked with. Crowley also hadn’t tasted like chamomile. He’d tasted like champagne and salt. 

And then there was after. Aziraphale looked over to his desk, where remnants of his project had begun in the late hours of yesterday. Flower stems and dropped petals littered the polished wood surface, which was cluttered with large, heavy, bound books. A patterned vase that once held a bountiful bouquet of daisies now had just the stems. 

The daisy corpses reminded Aziraphale of the reason he had purchased them in the first place. Mr. Perkins had not set foot within the premises in a good three weeks, ever since he’d first set out the bouquet. He was 87% certain he was never coming back, so there was really no need to replace the daisies.

But he had grown accustomed to seeing them there. He liked having another permanent living resident of the shop, even if it didn’t have a brain. It had brightened up the musty, somewhat dim bookshop, filling it with a fresh scent. Plus, getting a new bouquet would mean getting to see Crowley again. And that was something Aziraphale wanted very much. 

“Oh, come  _ on _ .” Crowley was immediately distracted from reliving his past when he spotted a yellowing plant in the corner. “Who told you you should be there? You need less sun.”

He got up from the ground and strutted over to the plant in question. 

“Well, you’re practically getting  _ cooked. _ Suppose that’s  _ my _ fault, innit?” He scoffed, then cradled underside of the pot as he moved it into a shadier corner. 

“Why didn’t you say something? Honestly, s’your fault. You didn’t tell me. ” Crowley raised his hands by his head and backed away. “You’re the stupid one, not me.”

Crowley was about to open his mouth again to make a rebuttal (despite the plant not having said anything back) when the bell rang, signaling the entrance of a customer. 

He left the cover of his plants, already preparing his charade he used when interacting with customers. “Hello, welcome to Eden, grower and procurer of fine flowers since- Aziraphale!”

The bookshop owner waved, his face already split into a wide smile. “Good afternoon.”

“Ahem. Um. How’ve- how’ve you been?” Crowley tried. “I mean. I know we just saw each other last night, but…”

Both flushed slightly at the mention of the previous evening. 

“I’ve been… fine.” Aziraphale now seemed unable to meet Crowley’s eyes. “I actually… um, I came by to see if I could get flowers.” 

“I’d wonder if you didn’t. This  _ is _ a florist, after all.”

Aziraphale brightened at Crowley’s semblance of humor. “I’m not sure exactly what I want.”

“I could give you daisies again. Or you could get a surprise.” Crowley adopted a theatrical tone when offering the second option.

Aziraphale played along, adopting a look of extreme excitement. “Ooh, what a decision. I think I’ll go with… the surprise.”

“One surprise bouquet coming up.” Crowley vanished among the colorful petals displayed. 

The longer Crowley worked, the more worried Aziraphale became. Crowley wasn’t letting him peek, insisting that “he asked for the surprise, so he would be surprised.” Aziraphale tried to remind him to not make it too loud or bright. He’d liked the daisies because of their delicate aesthetic and how well they blended with the bookshop. He wasn’t sure he could stomach something especially dark, or bright.

“Are you ready?” Crowley’s voice rang from behind the flowers. 

_ Finally _ . “I’ve  _ been _ ready, my dear.” Aziraphale held his breath. 

“Presenting… the one… the only… surprise bouquet for a one Mr. Fell!” Crowley swept his arm over the bunch of flowers he held in his hand.

The flowers themselves weren’t exquisite. They weren’t breathtaking. They were slightly fluffy, in pale shades of red and deeper shades of a muted magenta. However, they were lovely in their own way, the effect more… subtle. Which was just the way Aziraphale liked it.

“Oh!” Aziraphale walked forward to collect them. “Those are fantastic.” His eyes narrowed as he took the bouquet from Crowley. “It took you that long to gather these? There are only three or so types of flowers in here.”

Crowley flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I went through a lot of drafts.”

“I see.” Aziraphale could sense his face turning into a giddy smile. The prospect of Crowley trying so hard to make a bouquet for him lightened his heart. He could nearly feel the flower petals in his stomach, floating in a great whirlwind of excitement. 

“Say, I know you’re not due to close for another half hour, but would you like to go to the park with me?” The invitation slipped out before Aziraphale had time to think.

Crowley’s eyebrows raised. “The park?” 

“I mean, only if you wanted to. I know you’re surrounded by plants all day, so I’d understand if you decline.” 

“Why wait?” Crowley reached behind him to untie his green apron. 

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale glanced up, surprised.

“I can close up early today. Don’t think I’m expecting many more customers anyways.”

“Oh, I can’t ask you to do that—” Aziraphale began, but Crowley shushed him.

“You’re not asking me, I’m doing it myself. Grab your flowers and let’s go!”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley led the way out of his store, barely pausing to grab his coat. 

“You coming?” Crowley propped the door open, peering over his sunglasses. His hazel eyes were lit with hidden excitement, and were strangely inviting. 

Aziraphale smiled wider. “Of course,” he replied, and followed Crowley out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -yes Crowley's flower show is called Eden don't @ me-
> 
> This was a bit of a filler scene, so sorryyyyy..... I just wanted to get out another chapter. More fluff and preciousness coming your way, I promise. (And a lil agnst)


	10. Ducks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ducks are fed. Plans are made. A florist realizes he's falling in love.

St. James’s Park was surprisingly empty for a Saturday afternoon; the only people that were there kept to themselves, hiding behind dark glasses and newspapers. The sky was slightly overcast, bringing a chill to the February afternoon. 

Crowley (sunglasses on, despite the cloud cover) and Aziraphale (bouquet tucked in the crook of his arm) wandered along the paths, enjoying themselves despite the less-than-ideal weather conditions. 

“So. Tell me about your favorite books.” Crowley had been brainstorming topics at night while he struggled to fall asleep. Asking Aziraphale about books was one of them, and (if he had judged his character correctly) would create more than enough material to fill several conversations. 

“Oh! Well,” Aziraphale began, with the air of someone who is about to go on a very long rant about something they enjoy very much. “I’ve always been fond of Shakespeare. I suppose they’re plays, and not books, but I’ve always found his writing to be ever so eloquent. And his tragedies are  _ really _ something.”

“I could never stomach Shakespeare, myself,” Crowley confessed. “You know, I read some for school. Detested the tragedies, but the comedies I only disliked, as opposed to the pure unbridled hatred I felt for the sad stuff.” Crowley trailed off and waited for Aziraphale to continue or reply. When he didn’t pipe up, Crowley began making excuses.

“Oh. Sorry. I’ve insulted your favorite literature, haven’t I? That’s sort of… taboo, isn’t it? God, I’m such an idiot. Just… ignore everything I just said.” He hung his neck backwards and groaned.

This made Aziraphale laugh. “No, no, my dear, you’re fine. I acknowledge that everyone has their own opinions, no matter how misguided they may be.”

Crowley opened his mouth in mock horror.

“However… I was wondering if perhaps you’d like to catch a show sometime? Are you much of a theater person?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley, eyes wide, expectant.

“Huh? Oh. Umm..” To tell the truth, it was an overstatement to say Crowley wasn’t much of a theater person. He was very much the exact opposite of a theater person. If you took a theater person and obliterated them, leaving a black hole of negative space that is most definitively Not Theater Person, and put that mass in a body, you would get Crowley. 

His scene was more concerts. He could spend all day in crowded venues, full of the scent of hairspray and the yells of people. He loved not being able to hear his own thoughts, and the freedom that came with it. He loved getting completely shitfaced and croaking along to his favorite song in a voice that sounded like he’d just woken up. 

It wasn’t that anything bad had happened to him in a theater. It was just the atmosphere he hated. There was a certain decorum expected that set his anxiety on overdrive, producing so much paranoia it was hard to focus on anything else, least of all the show. He was hyper aware of all the subtle looks people gave him, whether they be judgemental or otherwise. 

In short, theaters were stuffy, full of wealthy people and overgrown theater kids, and overall not a place Crowley felt comfortable in. 

“I mean, I like a good show here and there,” Crowley said, lying through his teeth. “But can’t say I’ve seen many. Not really my scene.”

Aziraphale nodded, understanding. “I see. I’ve always been fond of theater. My mom, when we could afford it, would take me to see renditions of Shakespeare.”

Crowley smothered a groan. _Fuck._ _Fuck. He had to bring his mother into it, didn’t he? You’d better find some shred of theater love in your body, Anthony, because no way are you allowed to hate it after this._

“My favorite was always Hamlet,” Aziraphale said, smiling distantly, as if reliving a memory in his mind. 

“I had you pegged a comedy lover,” Crowley surmised, peering interestedly over at Aziraphale. He hoped he was doing a good job at concealing his true feelings. Aziraphale hadn’t seemed to catch on yet. Perhaps he should be more fond of theater, if he was this good of an actor. 

“Comedy? No, though those are brilliantly done. They just… lack the emotion and…” Aziraphale struggled to find an appropriate word. “The... well, drama, I suppose.” He laughed at his own slight pun. “Seeing characters act so vulnerable has made me feel better about myself.” He considered what he said. “Wait, that sounds… not right. I don’t get pleasure out of seeing others suffer. Seeing others suffer makes me feel like… it’s less- wrong, for me to do it myself. I just mean that—”

“I understand.” Crowley stopped walking, and in a rare display of emotion, took both Aziraphale’s hands in his own. He stared deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes, trying to impart the volume of how much he understood, not just about the current topic, but of Aziraphale’s whole, true self. He wasn’t sure how, but he felt less lonely with Aziraphale, not necessarily in a physical way. More like his soul finally had company. It had found its one true partner, the one true aspect of life it could never grow bored of. 

Crowley considered leaning in. It would be so easy to plant a kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. He couldn’t decide if last night had counted as a real kiss or not, because Aziraphale had been crying and he had been slightly drunk. Because of this, he wasn’t sure whether Aziraphale would welcome or turn away another kiss. He’d been tired the night before, and maybe not thinking straight. And maybe Crowley was taking things too fast. 

So he bit back his longing and dropped Aziraphale’s hands, turning away sharply while stuffing them in his jacket pockets. He gazed down at his toes, inching forward, eager to move forward, away from the moment. “I get it.”

Aziraphale’s mouth parted slightly, exhaling a puff of air before he closed it and shook his head. “Crowley, dear. Wait.” He began to follow after him.

Crowley braced himself for what was to come, squaring his shoulders, angling himself away from Aziraphale.  _ I’ve been meaning to talk to you _ , he pictured Aziraphale saying.  _ You’re forcing yourself upon me. I’m not ready. You’ll break me. You’ll tarnish me. You’ll completely ruin me, and be forced to live on my broken pieces for eternity. Because you’re the real predator in this relationship, if you can even call it that. You’re the predator, and you’ll always be unfit for love. Too harsh, too sharp. Too fast. Too. Bloody. Fast. _

“Your hands are freezing, my dear.” Aziraphale caught up to Crowley, breathing heavily. 

Crowley was startled. “My-  _ what _ ?” 

“Your hands. They’re absolutely frigid! Don’t you own… gloves, or…  _ something _ ?” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide with concern. 

Crowley nearly laughed. Here he was, thinking Aziraphale was about to smite him where he stood, and all he ended up fussing about was how his hands were  _ cold. _

“Here.” Aziraphale peeled of his own mittens, massive fuzzy things the color of oatmeal. 

“Oh, no, don’t—” Crowley protested, but Aziraphale was already forcing them into his arms. 

“Put them on,” he commanded, sounding remarkably fierce. “Don’t want you getting frostbite, now.”

Grudgingly, Crowley slipped the mittens on. They were incredibly soft and warm, heat from Aziraphale’s own hands lingering in the lining. 

“It’s alpaca wool,” Aziraphale said, answering Crowley’s unasked question. He looked upon Crowley, eyebrows scrunched, biting his lip. 

“What?” Crowley asked, noting his look of scrutiny. “Something wrong?”

“Not necessarily,” Aziraphale answered, unwinding his scarf, a thick piece of fabric pattered with a pale yellow and blue tartan print. He stood on his tiptoes and wound the scarf around Crowley’s neck. “You still looked cold.”

Crowley felt a warmth inside, not from the extra layers Aziraphale had given him, but from his heart. It was melting, completely dissolving under Aziraphale’s steady beams. 

“Goodness, you really are an angel, aren’t you?” Crowley murmured, not realizing what he’d said until Aziraphale stiffened. 

His mind astral planed into the previous evening. Echoes of Aziraphale’s statement (“She used to call me her Angel. I- I always loved it when she did that.”) rang in his head. 

“Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t think, honestly. I didn’t mean anything by it, promise.” He rambled to Aziraphale, who remained stoic. 

“You know,” Aziraphale said, staring straight ahead. Crowley’s heart, which had previously been dying at the hand of Aziraphale’s kindness, now pumped into overdrive as Crowley prepared to say goodbye to Aziraphale for the second time within the same day. “I don’t mind if you call me that.”

“You— what?” Crowley, also for the second time, looked up, confused. “Call you Angel?”

Aziraphale smiled slightly and shrugged. “Only if you want. Only if you deem me- ah-  _ sufficiently angelic _ .”

Crowley’s face split into a wide grin. “Kay, then,  _ Angel _ .”

“Oh, I’m going to regret giving you permission, aren’t I?” Aziraphale laughed. 

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Crowley’s mouth twisted into a playful smirk, and his hands wandered to the scarf to adjust it. “You know, this is the second time I’m wearing your clothes.”

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “I guess you’re right.” Smirking, he added, “when do I get to wear some of your clothes?”

Crowley considered, and then replied. “Now, if you want.” He promptly slid his sunglasses off his face and gently placed them on Aziraphale. 

“Good Lord! You wear these every day?” Aziraphale exclaimed. He raised his hand in front of his face and waved it about. “I can barely see anything at all!”

“You get used to it,” said Crowley, who was squinting despite the cloud cover. He coughed, trying to conceal the laughter that bubbled from inside of him at seeing Aziraphale blink widely like a goldfish, trying to see out of Crowley’s dark glasses.

“I feel practically  _ blind _ .” Aziraphale removed the glasses, passing them back over to Crowley. “Where’d you find those, anyways?”

“Had ‘em custom made.” Crowley plopped them back on his nose, already feeling much more at ease. His face felt naked without them, and just the weight of them on his nose was enough to comfort him. “Regular sunglasses aren’t dark enough.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Aziraphale sighed, unsure of whether to click his tongue or laugh. 

Their conversation came to a natural lull, breeze filling the space words did. Eventually, Crowley spoke. 

“Ducks!” he exclaimed.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale looked up at him sharply. 

“There are ducks.” Crowley pointed to the pond they had been walking along for some time. “Sorry. Childhood instinct.”

Aziaphale felt the corners of his mouth lift. “That’s perfectly alright, my dear. I, too, am rather fond of the ducks.” He began to search his pockets, finally emerging with a bag of what looked to be—

“Crumbs?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised. “Hang on. Did we come here to feed the ducks?”

“I do it every Saturday,” Aziraphale answered, moving closer to the edge of the pond. “I thought I’d invite you along.” He reached in the bag and grabbed a generous handful of breadcrumbs. 

The ducks seemed to have anticipated this feeding time, and had already flocked to the edge. When Aziraphale released the crumbs, a frenzy of quacks and feathers emerged on the surface of the water. 

Crowley watched, on the verge of laughing. “They really love bread, don’t they?”

“One of the many things ducks and I have in common.” Aziraphale offered the bag to Crowley. “Would you like some? To feed the ducks, I mean. Not to eat yourself.”

Crowley chuckled. “Yeah, I gathered that, Angel.” Aziraphale smiled at the second use of his nickname as Crowley dug his hand into the breadcrumbs. 

The ducks quacked as he released them over the water, water splashing as they fought to be the first fed. 

“I’ve always wondered if birds have ears,” Crowley said over the small din of feathers and feasting. 

“If they do, they’re not visible,” Aziraphale answered. “And they must have ears, right?”

“I suppose. How’d they hear other ducks?” Crowley shrugged and looked over the pond. “Maybe they just feel the vibrations.”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale felt his gaze wander over the park. The trees were still dormant, hibernating through the chilly February days. The grass was still green, a spot of color on an otherwise gray day. A few vendors were out, including a place that was selling cocoa. Aziraphale eyed it interestedly, seriously considering buying a mug, when his eyes landed on another table just nearby. 

“Oh, Crowley, look!” He pointed towards the table, which was nothing professional. It was gray and collapsible, and would have looked right at home in a garage or church basement. The people behind it were also a little less than polished, with shaggy hair and ripped clothing. Aziraphale looked past this all. What mattered to him was the sign, and what they were selling.

“They’re advertising a production of  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ ! Remember? The book you got from me. We should go and see it.”

Crowley froze. Not only was he not a fan of theater, he also hadn’t exactly  _ read _ the book he’d purchased from Aziraphale. It had sat on his dresser for the  _ longest _ time, and had eventually migrated… somewhere. He didn’t know quite where it was. It was definitely in his flat. He grimaced as he realized he’d have to both find it and read it before the production. 

“Um. Yeah! Sounds  _ phenomenal _ .” He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but Aziraphale picked up on it anyway. 

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t like theater. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” Blinking, he averted his gaze towards the ducks, who were quacking impatiently, eager for more breadcrumbs.

“No! No, it’s totally fine. I love the story. I could stomach seeing it live.” Crowley knew it was wrong to lie, but it was to Aziraphale, and he would suffer if he let him down. “I love all the… complex conflict… and  _ emotion _ .”

“Brilliant!” Aziraphale, newly exuberant, practically bounced over to the table, Crowley following, slightly resigned, at his heels. 

It turned out the production was a week from that day, a Saturday evening showing at a small local theater. 

A week wasn’t ideal for Crowley to locate and read a book, but it was more time than he thought he’d have. He prayed it was short. 

“Well, this should be  _ fun _ .” Crowley watched as Aziraphale pranced down the path, smiling at his excitement. He looked like a child, but in such a pure, unbridled way. He had the soul of someone not broken by the harsh realities of the world, but Crowley knew he had faced more than most. 

“Yeah. It should.” And Crowley found himself meaning it more than he thought. Of course, the show would be a bore. But it would be with Aziraphale. It was hard not to feel happy when around Aziraphale, as he teemed with it. It was contagious, and Crowley was watching, helpless, as he succumbed to the illness. He was falling, and falling  _ hard _ . 

“Hey. Could I tempt you to dinner beforehand?” Crowley offered. “It’s an evening showing. We could grab food at a restaurant near the theater, and then see the show.”

Aziraphale grinned broadly. “That sounds lovely, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley's like that one tumblr farmers against thespians except it's one slightly disgruntled florist who didn't mean to fall in love against thespians.


	11. The Porno of Dorian Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley see a play, but it turns out to be... not that great.

The Salisbury Theater, or as it was affectionately called, the Weed in the West End, was aptly named in all sorts of ways except for the bit about it being a theater. Of course, it still served as a performance venue of sorts, but also doubled as a nightclub (on alternate Thursdays), a church (for a very small but very loud group of Satanic nuns), a poetry hall (this is what it was most of the time), and, on one memorable occasion, a llama pen (the farmer who owned the llama had been taking the llama home from the vet, got a call from his wife, who had just gone into labor, needed a place to stash the llama, and had spied the Weed and considered it a good a place as any to put the llama until he got back). 

Salisbury was nicknamed the Weed for two reasons: the first being its fortitude. No matter how many neighbors complained, no matter how many city officials visited, no matter how many times cops trashed the place, they couldn’t get rid of it. It was a privately owned building, so the city couldn’t do anything. No one was quite sure who owned it, only that whoever it was let all sorts of mischief happen on the property, and didn’t mind if performances were held there. And so, as a result, there were quite a few performances. 

The second reason it was called the Weed was because of the scent. (This was the main reason why the neighbors complained.)

And, of course, this venue, the Salisbury Theater, the  _ Weed _ , if you will, was where a group of very broke, very gay college students were doing a dramatization of Oscar Wilde’s  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ . The very same production a certain florist and a certain bookshop owner had purchased tickets for a week prior. 

“Oh, God,” was what Crowley first said when he stepped over the threshold. “It  _ reeks  _ in here.”

Aziraphale followed behind him, sniffing. “Oh, you’re  _ right _ ! It smells a bit like”—he sniffed again—“marijuana, doesn’t it?”

Crowley murmured in agreement, eyes darting over the venue. It was dark and drafty, and looked like it could collapse at any moment. 

“At least I have these to smell instead,” Aziraphale commented, gesturing to his bouquet. Crowley, not wanting to deviate from his theme, had gifted more flowers, green carnations this time. 

“Ach. Yeah,  _ you _ do.” Crowley was no stranger to the smell of weed. It  _ was _ a plant after all, and he was a gardner, though growing it wasn’t the reason the scent was familiar. 

“I’ll give you a whiff, if you’re going to be so petulant about it.” Aziraphale offered the bouquet towards Crowley, who leaned in close, not only to smell the flowers, but to catch a sniff of Aziraphale’s now familiar scent of almonds and vanilla. 

“Mm, much better,” he murmured, sidling closer to Aziraphale. 

Crowley found himself looking forward to that night. He had located the book (which somehow had found its way  _ into _ a plant’s pot) and read it in three days. It was honestly tedious, and boring, and had resulted in him burning his dinner more than once. It was on the shorter side, and he thanked God for that. 

Then there was the matter of the actual performance-and-dinner date. Fifteen minutes before he was supposed to meet Aziraphale, he was a complete panicky mess. 

Again, there was the issue of what to wear. He eventually threw on one of his nicer, softer tees in a deep red color and paired it with nondescript, slightly-too-tight pants and the same blazer he had worn the past two dates. (He  _ really _ needed another blazer.) 

The dinner beforehand was nothing fancy, just a brief sit down meal at a pub. Crowley hadn’t been that present at the meal, his mind too preoccupied with worry about the performance, and trying to conceal said worry from Aziraphale, who had been looking positively ecstatic for the whole evening. 

His hands hadn’t stopped fidgeting the entire walk to the theater, but somehow ceased when they stood outside of it. It wasn’t like any theater Crowley had seen before, and it was most certainly not the one he had been picturing in his brain. 

The Salisbury Theater in real life was a disaster, and Crowley felt comforted by that. It seemed like a place he could identify with. His suspicions were only confirmed when they entered: the place was somehow worse on the inside. He thought it kind of mirrored the way he saw himself: subpar on the outside, a complete wreck within. 

More importantly, he felt right at home. It wasn’t anything like the stuffy theaters he had been in before, the places that carried toxic ghosts and superstition. This place was more his scene. He was almost comforted by the vague garage-band-slash-factory-basement vibe the entire establishment had. It was much more familiar to him than any other theater he’d been in. He found himself almost looking forward to the production.

“Ah. We have two tickets for the evening showing,” Aziraphale told the person at the auditorium door. He presented the tickets.

“Go right in,” the person said. She had heavy eyeliner and gum in her mouth. Crowley could smell the cinnamon scent from a foot away. 

“Why, she didn’t even check the tickets!” Aziraphale murmured indignantly. “I suppose we just sit wherever we want. Let’s go to the front.”

“Mmm. No,” Crowley protested. “Middle. Middle is fine.” He pulled Aziraphale into the closest aisle. Aziraphale looked at him, confused, but shrugged and took his coat off before settling into the chair. 

“They don’t even have playbills,” Aziraphale commented, looking slightly disgruntled. He had been hoping to add another to his collection. Doubt crept into his mind about how serious of a production this really was.

They didn’t have to wait long before the production began. The lights dimmed, and the cheap sheets that doubled as curtains parted to reveal the actors.

It began, for the most part, like a normal play. The actors weren’t  _ terrible _ , and it was a story Aziraphale knew and loved. However, his attitude began to shift when within the first five minutes, the characters of Henry Wotton and Basil Hallward began making out quite passionately on stage. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, concerned that this would set the mood for the whole show. 

(It did.)

“Well, that was certainly…  _ enjoyable _ ,” Crowley said, sticking an arm through his coat sleeve as he and Aziraphale left the theater. 

“A— a bit  _ deviant _ from the original,” Aziraphale replied, wary of meeting Crowley’s eyes.

“Mm. Yeah. I don’t remember nearly all that kissing—”

“No—”

“—or nudity—”

“No—”

“—and that one scene where Basil topped Dorian—”

“Mm. Right.” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to forget the images that remained burned in his mind. He was rather shy when it came to intimate relations of that nature. 

“You know,” he continued, groaning in his mind all the while, “I hate to admit it, but I think it’s what Oscar Wilde would have wanted.”

Crowley laughed. “Really?”

“He  _ was _ quite the—ah— _ promiscuous _ gentleman.” 

“Oh?” Crowley smirked. “And what did  _ you _ think?”

Aziraphale considered. “It wasn’t the  _ worst _ performance I’ve ever seen.”

“Sure.” Crowley grinned skeptically. 

“Well, the venue needed a little cleaning. And the acting left something to be desired. And there was entirely too much sexual content.” He paused. “Ok, maybe that  _ was _ the worst show I’ve ever seen.” And then he laughed, a loud guffaw, and Crowley couldn’t help but join in.

“That was like watching live porn!” Crowley cried, wiping tears of laughter from his face. 

“Oh, it was  _ worse! _ It wasn’t even  _ good _ porn!” Aziraphale countered, which made the two laugh harder. 

“No wonder the tickets were so cheap,” Crowley mused as their laughter died down. “I think you would have to pay  _ me _ to watch that again.”

“ _ Agreed _ ,” Aziraphale replied emphatically. “I’m sorry for making you sit through that.”

“Well, it was definitely more entertaining than any snoozefest Shakespeare play.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale, grinning.

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “Shakespeare isn’t a  _ snoozefest _ .”

Crowley waved his hand. “To each his own. I don’t know about you, but I could use a  _ drink _ . I want to forget  _ everything _ I just witnessed.”

“I might take you up on that offer,” Aziraphale murmured. 

“Come on, Angel, let’s find a bar.” Crowley offered his arm to Aziraphale.

“Or,” Aziraphale started. “We could go back to the bookshop. I have quite a few nice drinks there, if you're interested.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Mmm. I’m interested.”

Which was how, an hour later, the two found themselves slightly tired and entirely drunk. 

“Hey, Aziraphale?” Crowley was reclined on the same couch he’d fallen asleep on, once upon a time. His sunglasses were abandoned and had found a place on the coffee table. “Why’d you give me tha’ book?”

“I like it,” Aziraphale replied. He was seated in a cushy chair to the side of the couch Crowley was lying on. A nearly empty bottle of wine stood upright and erect on the coffee table in front of them, surrounded by a totally empty wine bottle upended and lying on its side. Aziraphale reached and poured what was left in the bottle evenly between his glass and Crowley’s.

“Ssso it had nothing to do with the gay shit?” Crowley asked, slurring his ‘s’ until it sounded like a hiss. 

“How d’you mean?” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed.

“I looked it up n’ everything. It’s sssupossed to be really gay. Not good with reading into subtext m’self, but”—he waved his hands erratically—“the internet says it is.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale said, flushing from both confession and the alcohol.

“Hmm?” Crowley had already forgotten what his question was. He sipped his wine, hoping it would refresh his memory.

“Maybe that’s why I lent it to you.”

“I didn’t really like it,” Crowley said. “Too wordy.”

“Is’ like, a hundred.”

“Noooo. S’two hundred. I checked.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale swallowed more wine. “I like that book.”

“Already said that.” 

Aziraphale yawned. “It’s late.”

“I can leave, f’you want. You’re prolly tired. I’ll go.” Crowley tried to stand, but swayed and fell back onto the couch. He groaned. “Shit. My head.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Stay. Don’t think you should drive.”

Crowley grumbled, but sunk further into the couch, bringing a hand to his temples to massage them. 

Aziraphale got up from his own place and went to fetch a blanket for Crowley. He found one and brought it over, shaking it out. As he went to go lay it on Crowley, however, the florist hooked an arm around his waist and pulled him down. 

“C’mon, Angel,” Crowley said, his wine-scented breath hot on Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale flushed further. “Dear, I think—”

He was cut off by Crowley’s mouth completely covering his own. This time it wasn’t tender, but sloppy and soft and sweet. It was a luxury all the same, and Aziraphale could feel himself dissolving into the heat of their embrace.

Crowley wasn’t sure what had possessed him to make such a bold move, yanking Aziraphale on top of him, but he was entirely glad he had done it. In his mind, it was the perfect way to end the night, struggling to breathe from both the bookshop owner on top of him and the kisses he pressed on his mouth.

“ _ Angel _ ,” he moaned when Aziraphale finally lifted his head and made like he was about to leave. “Mm. Don’t. Stay.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “I don’t think the couch is big enough, dear.”

Crowley only hugged him tighter. Aziraphale could feel him exhaling hot air through his shirt. Crowley’s fingers danced over his skin, begging him to stay with every touch. In his heart, Aziraphale knew he couldn’t say no. 

He chuckled one last time for the evening, and surrendered into Crowley’s grip.


	12. Snow Day

When Crowley woke up, he thought he was dreaming. Not only was he in Aziraphale’s bookshop, he was weighed down by Aziraphale himself. The room was bright, the many windows letting in an abundance of white light. It was a crisp morning, the old frame of the bookshop letting in drafts of cold air that chilled the tip of Crowley’s nose. 

He propped himself up on one elbow, not able to do much else with Aziraphale curled against his chest. His leg was asleep, and he longed to move it, but didn’t want to wake the sleeping angel on him. He hesitated before moving his arm, prying it out from under Aziraphale only to place it on top of him. 

Crowley blinked, eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the room. It didn’t help that his head was throbbing, a bitter memory of the abundance of alcohol he’d consumed the night before. He yawned, mouth sour and stale with the taste of wine. He wondered what time it was.

Just then, Aziraphale stirred on top of him. His eyes blinked open, revealing the stunning blue depths. He immediately closed them, as a particularly bright ray had chosen that moment to cross his face.

“Good morning, dear,” he said, voice soft with sleepiness. “Oh, my head.”

Crowley chuckled. “Morning. You got any coffee?”

“I’m”—Aziraphale yawned—“sure it’s around here somewhere.”

“If you get off me, I’ll brew a pot.” Crowley squirmed.

Aziraphale blinked, and then his mouth dropped open. “Oh! I’m so sorry.” He scrambled off Crowley, the heels of his hands digging into the meat of Crowley’s upper thigh. “Sorry.”

“Ach. It’s fine,” Crowley replied, stretching his leg. Feeling was coming back to it in sharp jabs. “How about that coffee, huh?” He struggled to his feet, placing most of his weight on the leg that hadn’t just been snoozing. He glanced around the shop, eyes passing over the window, when—

“By God, it snowed last night!” Crowley cried, surprised. He rushed closer to the window, hoping his eyes didn’t deceive him. Sure enough, the street outside was laden with a layer of white powder. It adorned everything, from the trees to the sidewalk. Even Crowley’s beloved Bentley was sporting a fluffy mantle of white over its usually glossy, dark coat. 

“Well, I’ll be. It did.” Aziraphale joined Crowley at the window, wrapped in the blanket that had been over both of them as they slept. Crowley draped his arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling the fuzzy burrito of a human closer to him. Their breath fogged the window. Crowley reached out and drew a face with the tongue out. Aziraphale laughed, and then groaned.

“I don’t want to go to work today.”

Crowley smirked. “Angel, you _are_ at work.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I meant I don’t want _to_ work.” He looked up at Crowley with wide eyes, pouting slightly. “I want to stay with you all day. We could go to the park. Make snow angels. And then drink cocoa.”

“What are we, _five_?” Crowley scoffed. Aziraphale looked back down, hurt. 

“Well— _I_ thought it could be fun.” 

Crowley, realizing his mistake, frantically tried to undo it. “Nononono! We can do that. We can totally do that. I can take the day off, or call a friend to watch the shop.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Too bad,” Crowley stated, whirling around to go get his coat. “You’re too late. I’ve made up my mind. Let’s go make some damn snow angels.” 

“What about the coffee, dear?” Aziraphale asked, hugging the blanket tighter around him like a shawl. He turned away from the window to face Crowley. 

Crowley faltered. “Ok, first coffee. Then the snow.” He moved a few steps toward Aziraphale, then stopped. “I assume breakfast stuff is in the kitchen?”

Aziraphale nodded, then spoke. “Oh, dear, you don’t have to make—”

Crowley had already disappeared into the kitchen.

Aziraphale sighed through a smile, reluctantly smitten with Crowley’s kindness. He watched the snow and listened to the faint noises of Crowley in the kitchen.

“Here you go, Angel,” Crowley said from behind him after seven or so minutes. He was balancing two mugs on a plate that had one muffin. 

Crowley handed a mug to Aziraphale, who, upon inhaling it, found it was full of tea. 

“You seem to like it better,” Crowley said. “I really had to dig around before I found the coffee, believe me. And here.” He handed Aziraphale the plate with the muffin. “You looked hungry, so.”

Aziraphale tried to hide the inevitable grin that found its way on his face. “Thank you.” He sipped his tea, which was somehow just the right temperature. It was sheer bliss.

The weight of Crowley’s arm settled on his shoulders once more, and the absolute perfection of the moment intensified. 

“You only brought one muffin,” Aziraphale noted, gently picking off the wrapping with one hand. 

“Ah, I don’t get hungry for breakfast,” Crowley replied after a sip of his coffee. 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale broke a small piece off the top, crumbs of sugar and cinnamon sticking to his fingers. “What if I gave you some?”

Crowley grinned. “I might take it.” His eyes flicked to the morsel clutched between Aziraphale’s fingers. “I suppose you’ll have to find out, won’t you?”

Aziraphale tentatively approached Crowley’s open and expectant mouth with his hand. He could feel Crowley’s breath warm his hand as he moved closer and dropped the crumb on his tongue. His finger brushed one of Crowley’s teeth on the way out. 

Crowley let the crumb dissolve on his tongue and then moaned. “Oh. Wow. That’s actually _divine_.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Would you care for some more?”

“Yes please.” Crowley opened his mouth and leaned in, almost like a baby bird. Aziraphale broke off a larger chunk of muffin, brought it towards Crowley’s mouth… and then turned at the last second and popped it into his own. 

He had to laugh at Crowley’s look of betrayal. 

“You mean, cruel Angel,” Crowley said, clutching his chest. “You had _no right_ to play with my mind in that way.”

“On the contrary,” Aziraphale countered. “It’s _my_ muffin.”

Crowley looked at him, expression of good-natured exasperation clear on his face. He sipped his coffee. “I _suppose_.”

Aziraphale swirled his mug, the last bit of tea dancing in the bottom. “What do you say we go make some snow angels now?”

It had begun snowing again by the time Aziraphale and Crowley made it outside. Crowley, ever consistent, wore his sunglasses, and, Aziraphale noticed, the scarf he had given him the last time they had gone to the park.

“You still have my scarf,” he commented, pointing at the length of wooly warmth wrapped around Crowley’s neck.

Crowley looked down, seemingly surprised. It had just been the first scarf he’d grabbed. He’d partially forgotten it was Aziraphale’s, as it felt so comfortable around his own neck. 

“Oh. Yeah. I can give it back, if you want,” he offered, already unwinding it. He shuddered as his neck became exposed to the cold. 

“Of _course_ not, my dear,” Aziraphale said, laughing. “It’s yours now. I have other scarves.” He gestured to the length of tartan encircling his own neck under his coat.

“I see.” Crowley wrapped the scarf back around his neck, treasuring the return of warmth. 

St. James’s Park was nearly empty when Crowley and Aziraphale arrived. The ducks were the only noticeable presence, and even they were few in number. In other words, it was the perfect place for a slightly clueless, altogether infatuated couple to make snow angels in the quiet of midmorning. 

“Do you think we’re allowed on the grass?” Aziraphale asked.

“Who cares?” Crowley said, tromping without hesitation in the snow. “There’s no one here.” He threw himself back on the ground, forgetting that snow wasn’t as soft as it looked. Landing with a thud, he let out a stream of curses that made Aziraphale’s eyebrows nearly jump off his face.

“Dear, are you alright?” he asked, concerned, joining Crowley on the snow-covered ground. 

“Ow. Yeah. Fine. A little stupid, but overall fine.” Crowley grinned, straightening his sunglasses, which had been knocked askew in his intentional fall. “Won’t you join me, Angel?”

Aziraphale smiled and sat down, infinitely more graceful than Crowley. He could feel the cold through his pants, but laid down anyways until he was fully reclined in the snow. He could hear the crunch as Crowley joined him in the same position, and he was met with the sight of Crowley’s eyes through his sunglasses, the lenses doing nothing to hide the childish excitement that shone from his face.

Neither of them said it, but it was strangely reminiscent of their memorable night under the stars. The snow had replaced the stars in a way; it was, after all, still small particles of white, but more subtle, more _domestic_ than the magic induced sky that night. 

“You’re going to have to be further away than _that_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “We can’t both make snow angels this close.”

Crowley blushed and shifted away. “You’re right. My mistake.”

“Right.” Aziraphale sighed and averted his gaze to the gray sky. “So… shall we begin?”

“You’re making it sound so formal. It’s a snow angel.” To illustrate his point, Crowley began swooping his legs and arms wildly over the ground, brushing snow out of the way to create his masterpiece.

“Aren’t you going to join in?” he asked after a bit, noticing Aziraphale hadn’t moved. 

Aziraphale, who had been too busy admiring Crowley’s bare enthusiasm, flushed. “Oh. Of course.” He spread his legs and arms, reluctant to completely submerge his limbs into the snow.

“Come _onnn_ ,” Crowley scoffed, his own limbs relaxed. “You can do better than that.”

“Are you criticizing my technique?” Aziraphale asked, incredulous. “Be _patient_. It’s _gradual_.”

“More fun if you do it all at once, though.” Crowley groaned as he pulled himself up, straining with the effort of not ruining his snow angel. “I always hated this part. It’s so bloody hard to get up without _ruining_ it with your elbow, or something.”

He stood up, shaking the snow off his lean figure, and admired his handiwork. 

“In hindsight, might’ve gone a _bit_ too hard on the wings.” He leaned forward. “I think I tore up some _grass_ , actually.” 

“Well, that’s a bit sacreligious, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked from his point on the ground. He had given up on his slow-yet-sure method and was sweeping the snow with more gusto (though not as passionately as Crowley had minutes before).

“How so?” Crowley peered over his sunglasses at Aziraphale on the ground.

“I mean, you being a florist and all,” Aziraphale clarified. “I’d think that hurting a plant would give you hives.”

“Hives?” Crowley smirked. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. I would’ve thought harming a plant is the complete opposite of your job description.”

Crowley thought back to all the memorable occasions he had yelled at his plants. The cafe next door had once registered a noise complaint (it wasn’t his fault that Barnabas had developed a case of powdery mildew! It was completely the plant’s fault, the _skiving_ , completely _evil_ thing that it was—)

“Mm. Yeah. Complete opposite.” Crowley laughed it off. “I mean, who gives a damn about a little grass?”

“Don’t quote me on this, but I think that the city staff _might_ have a bone to pick with you for messing up the landscaping.” Aziraphale, who deemed his angel done, was now attempting the somewhat difficult task of getting up.

“So what? They can pick all the bones they want. I'll come back with sharper ones. Like a rib cage. Or teeth.” He paused. “Are teeth bones?”

Aziraphale grunted, still trying fruitlessly to right himself without ruining the masterpiece underfoot. “I don’t think so.”

Crowley stared at the struggling Aziraphale. “You need help?”

Aziraphale leaned back, defeated. “I think so, yes.” He stuck out his arm, which Crowley took. 

“Well, yours certainly is… _something_ ,” Aziraphale said once he was by Crowley’s side. The two were examining their snow angels.

“It’s OK, you can say it’s shit,” Crowley said, running a hand through his hair. What he had intended to be a snow angel had really turned into a snow… demon. It was marred with mud and grass stains, and the snow that was left was a slush. “Serves me right for going too fast, I suppose.”

Aziraphale’s snow angel was (of course) flawless. 

“I’m sure you just need practice,” Aziraphale mused. 

“Practice? It’s a snow angel, Angel,” Crowley said, slightly cringing at the double word usage. “It’s child’s play. Not exactly a skill I need to have. And it’s not like I didn’t have fun.”

Aziraphale smiled absently, then clicked his tongue, face falling. “Now my pants are all wet.”

Crowley laughed. “Well, what do you say we head back to the bookshop? I can picture a lovely way to spend the rest of the day.” He sighed overdramatically, waving his arms, gesturing at a daydream only he could see. “Picture it. You. Me. A fire. Blankets beyond your wildest dreams.”

Aziraphale considered. “Will there be cocoa?” he eventually asked. 

Crowley laughed. “As much as you want, Angel.” He sighed and looked back down. “I think we should leave now, though. I know what I said earlier, about not caring about the city officials, but I think they _might_ be pretty pissed if they find their grass like this.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” Aziraphale said, catching sight of a sign reading PLEASE KEEP OFF THE GRASS. “Perhaps we should just”—he placed a firm, mittened hand on Crowley’s waist and steered him away from their creations—“go.”

Crowley didn’t need to be told twice. He and Aziraphale scampered away from the crime scene, surprisingly giggly for felons. 

It was nearing lunchtime when they reached the bookshop, so Aziraphale found himself rummaging through the pantry in search of something to prepare for the two of them alongside their cocoa. He tossed aside various products, some of which had probably expired over decades ago, until he came upon a few familiar cans. 

“Crowley, dear, how does soup sound?” he called. Crowley was in the other room, curled up on the couch under one of Aziraphale’s favorite blankets. Every inch of Aziraphale’s being urged him to go and join Crowley, but he had to make lunch first. 

“Fine,” Crowley replied. It was slightly muffled, and Aziraphale wondered how far under the blanket he had gone. Chuckling to himself, he took out the soup tins and began to heat them in a pot over the stove. 

He turned on another burner and began to make the cocoa. Hot cocoa was one of the only recipes he could make off the top of his head. It had been his mother’s favorite beverage. She would make it every Friday in the wintertime, and then they would sit on their tartan-print couch, rife with cat claw scratches, and talk under heaps of blankets. 

As Aziraphale inhaled the comforting scent, he was brought back to those good times of the past. He knew they were gone, but he would never stop trying to relive them. 

“Something smells good,” Crowley said, entering the kitchen. His eyes fell on the empty cans on the counter. “Is that my soup?”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think so. I don’t believe you ever took them home. I hope it’s OK that I’m making them now.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Crowley murmured, swooping closer to Aziraphale. He intertwined his arms around Aziraphale’s torso from behind and rested his head on his shoulder. “As long as I get some.”

“Tell me if it’s warm enough.” Aziraphale dipped a spoon in it and twisted so he could bring it to Crowley’s mouth. 

Crowley accepted it gratefully. “Mmm. OK. That’s damn near perfect. It’s like I’m Goldilocks or something.”

“Glad to hear it,” Aziraphale replied, turning to the cocoa. “Be a dear and fetch some bowls, spoons, and mugs.”

He felt Crowley’s hands leave his waist, an action that was soon followed by a small clutter as Crowley collected the various dining equipment from cabinets. 

“Would you like some cocoa?” Aziraphale asked when Crowley returned with the dinnerware and spoons. 

“Would I ever,” Crowley said. “It smells delicious.” He offered the mugs to Aziraphale, who proceeded to fill them, along with filling the bowls with soup. 

The two returned to the couch, armed with their hot beverages and lunches.

“God. Aziraphale. This is _incredible_.” Crowley took another sip from his cocoa. 

“It was my mum’s recipe.” Aziraphale smiled as he, too, took a mouthful from his own mug. 

Crowley returned his grin. “She sounds like she was lovely.”

“She was.” Aziraphale looked into his soup. “You remind me of her, in some ways.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Really?” He coughed. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, being compared to one’s mother.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “It’s most definitely a compliment, my dear. I only meant that she, like you, was very… intense, but in the best ways. She was awfully caring, completely understanding, and incredibly nice.”

Crowley frowned. “This is slander. I’m not supposed to be _nice_.” 

“Whyever not?” Aziraphale took a spoonful of soup. 

“Ruins the aesthetic,” Crowley replied simply. “I’m _aloof_.”

“More like full of floof,” Aziraphale replied. “You’re a softie.”

“You take that back.” Crowley placed his bowl and mug on the coffee table so he could lunge at Aziraphale, clutching the front of his shirt. “Shut it.”

Aziraphale tried to move his own bowl and mug to the table while simultaneously being gripped by Crowley. “You want me to be quiet, you do it yourself.”

“Maybe I will,” Crowley said right before kissing Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was smug throughout their kiss. He smiled, knowing full well his plan had worked. 

“See. Told you. Softie,” Aziraphale said after they had broken apart. 

Crowley narrowed his eyes, then curled into Aziraphale’s chest. “I’m only accepting that title because I’m afraid you’ll kick me out if I don’t.”

Aziraphale draped his arm over Crowley, stroking it with two fingers, showing him he had no intention of letting him leave anytime soon. “Of course, my dear. But don’t worry,” he added, poking Crowley’s cheek. “I only love you more for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ach I think it'll be closing up soon... expect to see like 3ish more chapters? I think... we're gonna call it at that. Thank you to everyone who's been reading it! It means so much, you have no idea.


	13. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A montage, a misunderstanding, and Italian food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry this chapter took _so long_ to get out, it's a bit longer than the rest and I also fell down a Sherlock on Netflix-sized hole which cut my writing time in half. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> Also, I will put a slight warning here: most of this work has been fluffy and stuff, but we have a moment of almost sexy time, it's a lil steamy (nothing explicit though, don't worry!) Just thought I'd put that there.

The concept of heaven on earth is, of course, figurative in every sense, but, were it meant as a literal statement, it would be an oxymoron. 

The very idea of heaven on earth is inaccurate, as the whole point of heaven is that it is very much not on earth. Heaven is supposed to be the place where all those of us that have not sinned terribly during our meager existences go to spend eternity after we are freed from the confines of mortal life. And so, by extension, for the same reason a theater cannot occupy the same space as a llama pen (or _shouldn’t_ occupy the same space, at any rate) heaven and earth are two distinct places, one of which is entirely subjective. 

Crowley, an atheist, always thought that, _if_ heaven and hell were actual places and not a system employed by religious figures to trick everyone into being good like some sort of demeted Father Christmas, he would end up on the highway to hell. He had most certainly not lived an entirely clean life, and didn't consciously try to make good decisions. He’d always been a sort of go-with-the-flow kind of person, and whether it took him in the right direction had not been a priority. If the flow wanted him to be gay and smoke weed and grow plants, so be it. If the flow wanted him to get head over heels in love with a somewhat fussy bookshop owner, so be it. That wasn’t his choice. 

However, for someone who was going to hell, Crowley sure felt like he was dining with the archangels in the highest throes of heaven for the few weeks following the snowfall. And it was, of course, all entirely due to the fussy bookshop owner, his one and only angel, the ever-shining ray of light Aziraphale. 

They began seeing each other in some way every day. They had their jobs at their respective shops, of course, but they fit in lunches and picnics and walks around the hours. 

Crowley found himself spending more and more time at the bookshop. He hadn’t realized until one woman asked him if he was a new employee. Aziraphale had been nearby when she’d posed the question, and he’d exchanged glances with Crowley, both trying not to laugh. Crowley had had to correct her gently and point her to Aziraphale, who was discreetly wheezing. 

Aziraphale didn’t spend as much time at the flower shop as Crowley did at the bookstore, but he did occasionally pop by with croissants and scones from the bakery next door. 

He’d _finally_ caught Crowley in the act of screaming at his plants, an occurrence that resulted in a rather awkward confession from Crowley in which he revealed his somewhat questionable relationship with his goods. Aziraphale had burst out laughing, while Crowley had stood, shifting his weight between feet as he often did when he was uncomfortable. 

“So when I first came into the store, you were talking to your _plants_?” Aziraphale finally asked, wiping tears from his eyes. 

“Mm. Yeah,” Crowley grunted. He didn’t see what was remotely funny about the entire situation. “In my defence, people say talking to plants is good for them.”

“Yes, but dear, you positively _bully_ them,” Aziraphale pointed out. 

“Yeah? And look at them. Best bloody plants in all of London.”

“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale had looked at him, taking his hand. “Of course.”

Crowley knew he meant that when he said it. He was always exceptionally excited whenever Crowley brought him a new bouquet, which was often. So far, he had yet to deliver an arrangement he hadn’t before, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. 

He brought over so many bouquets that at one point, the bookshop looked like a second location to his flower shop. Every table had at least one vase brimming with flowers, aesthetic be damned. The shop was fragrant and bright, and Aziraphale was now 100% sure that Mr. Perkins would _never_ be returning. 

And so they lived, prancing about in domestic harmony, balanced and true. The perfect word for it was mutual; a little of this, a little of that, but from both directions. They were connected in ways they’d never dreamed of before, two souls that just seemed to click.

Weeks turned into months, and the spring season brought newfound joys. Lazing on Sunday afternoons was much more pleasant now that the sun was shining behind a cloud cover; the grass was green, the flowers in bloom, and there was a new family of ducklings that forged its way through the pond. Crowley had relished seeing Aziraphale’s eyes light up with childlike glee when he saw them the first time. 

Aziraphale had reached over and placed a hand on Crowley’s arm excitedly. “Oh, look!” 

Crowley remembered laughing, bringing his hand to meet Aziraphale’s, curling his fingers over it. “I see, Angel. I see them.”

The relationship became a routine luxury for the both of them. Life was indeed heaven, or as close as one could get to it. A mix of flowers and food, comfort and kisses. It was ice cream in the evening, laughter in the afternoon, and happiness round the clock. It was cliche, but oh-so ineffably _good_. And, for a while, it looked like it would stay that way forever. 

* * *

It was a warm and sunny day in April, the type of day where nothing could seem to go wrong. The weather set everything and everyone in a perfectly peachy mood. The sun and sheer bliss of a breeze put a smile on everyone’s face, erasing sadness for the few limited hours it came up over the horizon. It most certainly wasn’t a day for disruption, or a day for something so perfect to be ruined. But, like optical illusions and objects in side mirrors, looks can be deceiving. 

The two were relaxing in the bookshop, the evening air slowly filtering in through a cracked window, mingling with the fresh aromas of the numerous bouquets littered here and there. The sun was low, but not quite gone, trying to savor the still moments before it bid the world adieu for the night. It cast rays through the blinds, illuminating stretches of dust in the air.

“Shall we get takeout?” Aziraphale asked, exiting the kitchen carrying two glasses of wine. Crowley turned his head when he heard him enter, craning it over the arm of the couch. He was reclined, his long limbs draping over the various contours of the seat, but shifted to a sitting position when Aziraphale entered. 

“Sure. Sounds… fine. What d’you want?” Crowley accepted one of the glasses from Aziraphale, sipping it daintily. He brought his legs up from the floor to underneath him, resting an elbow on the corner of the couch. “I could go for anything.”

“Well, _you’re_ no help,” Aziraphale replied, settling into the chair across from the couch. He placed his own wineglass on the coffee table, setting it on a coaster despite the fact that it wasn’t obscenely hot or cold.

“Fine then. Soup.” Crowley grinned.

“You always want soup. Besides, it’s not winter. We should have something _fresh_.”

“Cold soup, then.” Crowley laughed when Aziraphale frowned, tongue out in disgust. 

“ _No_.” Aziraphale got up again, ready to head towards the phone. “Shall I get a salad? Perhaps some Italian?”

“Ah… sure. Not that hungry myself, but I’ll eat if you will.” 

“Right then.” Aziraphale disappeared into the front of the shop. Crowley could hear his pleasant voice sounding from over the shelves, the lilting tenor he usually reserved for customers and children. Crowley laughed whenever he used it on him, most of the time when he was doing something exasperating.

“It’s on its way,” Aziraphale informed him as he reentered the room. Crowley smiled slightly in reply. 

“So. Anything on the agenda for tonight?” Crowley asked. “Here.” He patted the place next to him on the couch, inviting Aziraphale to talk to him in closer proximity.

“No, I don’t think so. Unless you have plans.” Aziraphale wandered closer, falling straight into Crowley’s trap. As soon as he was close enough, Crowley hooked an arm around his waist and pulled Aziraphale on top of him. 

“I can think of a few things,” he murmured, stroking a stray curl from Aziraphale’s forehead before pressing a kiss there moments later. 

His skin burned where Crowley’s lips touched, a fire that soon spread down his face and chest. “Oh, you think you’re _sly_ ,” he said, trying to hide his pleasure. 

Crowley widened his eyes, feigning innocence. “I do like to think of myself that way, yes.” His surprised ‘o’ of a mouth twisted into a wicked grin as he dove forward, into Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale cried out with surprise, and then laughed softly as Crowley tasted his skin with parted lips accompanied by the occasional naughty nibble of sharp teeth.

“Oh, you _demon_.” Aziraphale’s words were muffled, as he spoke them into Crowley’s hair. Somehow, Crowley still heard a laugh rumbling in his throat. He surfaced, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze with his own shining eyes.

“You know you love it,” Crowley said, finally bringing his lips to Aziraphale’s. Despite this being a somewhat routine occurrence, it still had yet to lose all the excitement and joy surrounding it. It felt new every time, each kiss having unique nuances that made each one slightly different (but so much _better_ ) than the last.

“Mm,” Aziraphale said into Crowley’s mouth, his hands pressing into the hard surface of Crowley’s chest. 

“You’re too good, Angel,” Crowley said, dragging his mouth to Aziraphale’s jaw and whispering. He glanced up, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes from an odd angle. “If I _am_ a demon. Not really the type you should _fraternize_ with.”

“I don’t care,” Aziraphale said, nonchalance slathered over suppressed eagerness. His fingers moved from Crowley’s chest to his hair, twisting it back from his face. “I want you.”

Crowley had the dignity to look surprised for as brief a moment as possible before grinning wickedly. “You what? I didn’t quite _catch that_.” His voice turned to a slow hiss. 

“I want you.” Aziraphale met Crowley’s gaze, and despite the heat, he kept staring. “I want you to take me. If I’m the angel you say I am, make me _fall_.”

Crowley’s mouth was on his before he could take a breath in; it was fierce, it was ferocious, it was _needy_. It begged for something, _anything_ more, desire coursing strongly with each intake. Aziraphale was left gasping for air, his face hot. 

But Crowley had no mind to take a break. His tongue had already traveled down Aziraphale’s neck, teasing the soft folds that naturally formed there in his pale, smooth skin. 

Aziraphale couldn't help but let his eyes roll back in his head with pleasure. If this was what sin felt like, he was going to hell. He was falling from heaven and falling in love, and Crowley was responsible. Crowley, who had taken his life and set it on fire. Crowley, who was wrath and ruin and flowers. Crowley, who was his one, his only, his sin, his virtue, his demonic lover boy florist anxiety-ridden ball of perfection. 

The warmth that traveled between them was enough to boil the sun, concentrated in all the spots where they were pressed together. 

Aziraphale shifted, going from sitting in Crowley’s lap to straddling his waist, arms finding their way up under his loose shirt. Crowley’s skin was cool, and Aziraphale could feel him shiver as he pressed his fingertips into his back, one by one, little pinpricks of warmth undoing Crowley completely. 

One of Crowley’s shoulders snuck out of his wide neckline, and it was Aziraphale’s turn to swoop down, mouth tracing love on Crowley’s skin. 

Without removing his lips from Crowley’s skin, Aziraphale smoothly slid his jacket off, bunching it behind him. Keeping it in good condition seemed so trivial now; all he wanted was Crowley. Crowley near him. Crowley under him. Crowley so close to him he was _inside_.

Crowley moaned as Aziraphale moved up his neck, making a path with petal-soft kisses. It all felt so _good_ . He was astounded. To him, Aziraphale was worth all the bouquets, all the star-filled skies. He was glasses of rosé and the cream of tiramisu and pink rose petals, and Crowley was _starved_ of the luxury, the total complete _decadence_ of his angel Aziraphale. He was the one truly nice thing in Crowley’s life, and he intended to savor him slowly.

Aziraphale finally reached Crowley’s lips, smothering the involuntary whimper he had begun to let out. His hands tangled in Crowley’s mass of wavy auburn hair, weaving an inescapable net. He tried to break free, wanting to let his hands wander over Crowley’s body, but it only further trapped him. 

Crowley groaned as Aziraphale yanked his hair, both repelled and ravished by the sensation. He leaned in further, not bothering to confine his mouth to Aziraphale’s lips; he let it explore the soft skin of his face, tracing lines over Aziraphale’s forehead and cheeks. His hands gripped Aziraphale’s backside, long fingers supporting his weight. He snaked an arm under the tail of Aziraphale’s shirt, which _had_ been tucked in at the beginning of the evening but had been undone due to their current situation. 

As he expected, Aziraphale’s back was warm, heated especially by recent events. Crowley’s hands traced up and down, writing invisible sigils and blessings across the expanse of glorious skin. 

He felt Aziraphale shudder at his touch, and he smiled, pleased it had that effect. 

“ _Crowley_.” It was the first time either of them had spoken since they had started making out, and it only elevated the mood further. Aziraphale spoke Crowley’s name with the perfect mix of breathlessness and wanting, suppressed lust and true love. Crowley could listen to it over and over again. 

Aziraphale finally worked his hands free frome Crowley's hair, briefly pausing to stroke Crowley’s neck before pushing them between the two, under Crowley’s shirt. He ran his knuckles over each of Crowley’s ribs, eventually resting his hands on Crowley’s chest and sternum. 

Crowley removed his hands from Aziraphale’s back and instead tugged the hem of his own shirt. When Aziraphale realized what he was trying to do, he was all too eager to assist, pulling Crowley’s shirt over his head and tossing it in a far-flung corner of the bookshop. 

“Do you…?” Crowley looked at Aziraphale, struggling to get the words out, partly due to awkwardness, but mostly because he was finding it harder to breathe with Aziraphale so close to him. “Do you want this?”

Aziraphale replied by pressing a kiss over his heart, arms wrapping around his waist. Resting his chin on Crowley’s stomach, he looked up. “I do, dear. I do.”

“I mean…” Crowley wasn’t sure how to phrase his query delicately. “Can I… I guess... what I’m asking is…”

Aziraphale smiled in a way he thought was coy, but looked nothing short of goofy on his face. “Shush up and _ravish me_.” 

He sat up slowly, letting the tension and heat build, a dam that was about to break. His hands moved to the top of his shirt, undoing the first button. He tried to keep Crowley’s gaze but found it quite hard to work the buttons through their holes without looking at them. 

Crowley’s fingers dove to assist, making quick work of them. When he reached the last button, his hands slid lower, resting on the waistline of Azirphale’s pants. 

Aziraphale leaned in, his breath tickling Crowley’s ear. “ _Do it, my dear_.”

Crowley swallowed, lips moistening in anticipation. He slipped a finger under the waistband, eager to free Aziraphale completely, to wrap his mouth all over his lovely—

 _Raprapraprap_. A knocking sounded on the front door of the bookshop, rattling the ancient glass panes in the windows. Startled, Crowley leapt back, elbowing Aziraphale in the gut. Aziraphale let out an ‘oof’ and fell backwards off of the couch, legs in the air. 

Aziraphale wrapped his exposed torso in a blanket and risked a glance around a bookshelf to see who was at the door. It appeared to be someone with several packages. He racked his mind for who that might be.

“ _Right_. The delivery.” He groaned as he realized. “Crowley, dear, our food’s here.” 

“The Italian? God, I’d forgotten.” Crowley looked down at his bare chest, then at Aziraphale’s. “Do you want to put a shirt on, or should I? I think if we went to the door like this the delivery boy might get the wrong idea.”

Aziraphale blushed. “Right. Um. I can. They talked to me on the phone, after all.” He threw the shirt back on, buttoning it up. He was so distracted he hadn’t realized he’d been one buttonhole off the entire time, leaving him with an extra button when he reached the bottom of the shirt. 

He figured there was no time to redo it, however, as the delivery boy had started to knock again, this time sounding altogether more impatient. 

“I’m _coming_ ,” Aziraphale muttered, mostly to himself, as he walked past the shelves. He shook his head, clearing it of the past few minutes, and prepared his best customer voice. 

The interaction with the delivery boy was awkward but brief, and barely over a minute later Aziraphale rejoined Crowley, this time joined by delicious smells of pasta sauce and garlic. 

“Are you still hungry?” Aziraphale asked. “Wait, were you hungry before?”

Crowley shrugged. “I could eat.” 

They were able to carry on pleasant conversation as they ate, both of them reluctant to actually talk about what they had been doing (and what they were about to do) before the food had arrived. 

Both were hungrier than they had thought, and their meals were completely devoured in less than ten minutes. 

Aziraphale offered to toss the containers, and disappeared into the kitchen to dispose of them. This gave Crowley a convenient moment to think. 

He sipped his nearly finished glass of wine, trying to decide how to reintroduce the topic of all that had transpired before dinner. It hadn’t felt wrong in the moment, but now that they weren’t living in it, it felt like an itchy wool sweater: smothering and uncomfortable.

Aziraphale reentered the room before Crowley had made a decision. His eyes traced him as he sat down next to him on the couch. The couch, not the chair. Crowley hoped that meant Aziraphale was still fine with… everything. 

“So.” Aziraphale brought his legs up on the couch, curling them beneath him. 

“So,” Crowley repeated, leaning forward towards Aziraphale while simultaneously placing his wineglass back on the table. He watched as Aziraphale’s mouth trembled, hopefully due to anticipation of the numerous kisses he couldn’t wait to place on them. Crowley snaked an arm around his lower back, bringing Aziraphale closer together. Their lips brushed together, not in a kiss, but in an intimate gesture that only seemed to prove their proximity to each other, confirming that _yes, this is them, this is real_. 

And then the world fell again. Crowley was pulling Aziraphale onto his lap, lips pressed together; Aziraphale was pinned underneath him, breathing hard; their clothes were rumpled and half off. 

Crowley once again found himself in the vicinity of Aziraphale’s waist. Resting his head on Aziraphale’s cushiony stomach, he brushed a hand over the front of Aziraphale’s pants, feeling the telltale sign that Aziraphale was enjoying this… tryst of sorts, this romantic rendezvous. 

His fingers danced around the button of Aziraphale’s trousers, ready to tease it open, ready to have Aziraphale right then and there, ready to have him keening and begging for more and more and _more_ —

“Wait.” 

Crowley glanced up, raising his head to face Aziraphale. He looked… worried. “Mm?”

Aziraphale looked down, and Crowley could tell he was flushing. “Can we… wait?”

“I…” Crowley trailed off in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Aziraphale looked back up again, and Crowley was startled to see pain in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, unable to find the words.

“I mean. It’s fine! I can just… yeah. It’s totally ok. I can stop. Yeah. That’s… fine.” Crowley peeled himself off of Aziraphale, getting up off the couch, standing still for a moment, and then busying himself with picking up his shirt and putting it back on. “I can… leave.”

“No. Crowley.” Aziraphale reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “I don’t want—” He stopped, a surprising amount of emotion stopping his words. “You can stay.”

“Is something the matter?” Crowley ducked down, worried. He peered at Aziraphale, eyes wide, from his perch on the side of the couch. 

“Oh, no. Nothing.” Aziraphale laughed, a shaky noise that sounded more like he was about to cry. “Just a little too fast.” 

“But… before…?” Crowley’s question dwindled with the trust that Aziraphale would know what he was talking about. 

“Before… I don’t know.” Aziraphale’s eyes were shiny. “Maybe… maybe I was just hungry.”

“So… none of it was… _true_ ?” Crowley tried to stop the voice crack from sneaking in, but it did. _Pathetic_. 

“No,” Aziraphale answered, before realizing his mistake. “I mean, yes! No, it wasn’t- _not_ true, it was…” He wasn’t making any sense, even to himself. When he made eye contact with Crowley again, he was met with confusion in the florist’s eyes. Confusion, and betrayal.

“So that’s it, then? It wasn’t anything to you?” Crowley hated how needy his voice sounded.

“No, Crowley, it was… everything! Believe me. I want…” Aziraphale faltered. “I’m not sure what I want.” 

“Well, it’s bloody not me.” Crowley could no longer suppress the emotions he was feeling. He had been in heaven barely a minute ago, and to find himself hurtling down into the endless pits of hell wasn’t that pleasant. He was angry. He was sad. But mostly, he was confused. He had thought Aziraphale wanted this, wanted _him_. Was he wrong? Was he misguided? Letting people get close to him hurt, and hearing Aziraphale fumble over words, trying to prove his worth to Crowley, was painful beyond all else. He wasn’t sure who to blame; his head was spinning.

“No, I—” Aziraphale heaved a deep breath in, shaky and soft.

 _Shit_. _Shit_. _He’s crying._ Crowley wavered, unsure whether comforting him would make it worse. 

“Do you know… what it feels like?” Crowley finally said. “I was ready. I wanted to make you happy. I wanted you, Angel. I understand if you don’t want me. I can go. It’s… fine.” He turned on his heel and started towards the door.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale was hoarse, his voice barely functioning. He sniveled there, helpless on the couch, half undressed, as the only thing that mattered slipped out of the door and into his car before speeding away. 

Before, Aziraphale had thought he had fallen. He thought his world was in ruin, a picture of beautiful destruction at the hand of one man. 

It wasn’t until that one man had gone that Aziraphale understood what true ruin felt like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, sorry this took so long.


	14. Brittle Pages, Brittle Petals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AUGH.

Memories are a funny thing. It’s strange how mundane objects can conjure up strong emotions, fragments of a time gone by. Because, no matter how hard people try, severing the mental ties that once were so strong, the ones that kept them grounded and going, is a near impossible feat. It cannot be done, not without sacrifice. 

Crowley noticed the symptoms of heartbreak in many ways. He found himself overwatering his plants, getting so lost in his thoughts he was drowning those around him. He would forget to have meals, no longer having dates to remind him to eat. He would draft bouquet ideas in his mind, oftentimes putting the flowers together before letting them rot, having no loving hand to gently care for them after their stems had been cut. 

In truth, he felt very much like his flowers. Before, he’d never had anyone actively caring about him. It had felt weird at first, having someone concerned about his well being, fussing over him at every opportunity. But each worried comment, each reassurance eventually wore away at his heart, melting into a puddle of romantic hopelessness. And for a while, that had been fine. He had someone, someone who made him feel like he owned and _was_ the world at the same time, someone who told him he mattered, someone who let him know that he was beautiful without ever speaking aloud. 

But now his stem was cut, and he was starved of attention. There was no water, no relief for his heart. He had thought affection was the true pain, wreaking havoc through his life, turning him into an awkward mess, but he’d rather be an awkward mess than a dying flower with a bleeding heart. 

Crowley spent a week reliving his last moments with Aziraphale over cheap wine and takeout in the evening. 

_Why had he lashed out like that? What caused him to push away the only good thing in his life? What kind of a monster was he to do that?_ A part of him hoped Aziraphale was happier without him, just so he could live with the confidence that what he did benefited at least one of them. He tried to convince himself that Aziraphale was over him. That Aziraphale was too good for a douchebag like him. Because it was true, wasn’t it? He was a douchebag. A complete dumpster fire of a human. 

Tiny knives pierced his heart every time he closed his eyes to see Aziraphale’s face telling him to wait. Saying it was too fast. Most of the time, these words evolved into something uglier. _You were never good enough. See how you hurt me. See how you hurt everything. You can’t even keep your plants alive. You’re repulsive, Crowley. You’re repulsive and no one wants you, no one needs you. You can’t even live with yourself._

Crowley rarely closed his eyes anymore. He numbed himself, pouring in mixtures of caffeine and alcohol, trying for anything, anything at all, that would heal, or distract at the very least, from his crushed soul. 

* * *

Aziraphale noticed the symptoms of heartbreak in one way: anticipation, followed by disappointment.

He found himself near lunchtime, wondering where he and Crowley should dine, before remembering there was no ‘he and Crowley’ anymore. 

He found himself leaping inside every time the phone rang, hoping he would hear Crowley’s reassuring voice, telling him he forgave him, asking if they could have lunch together. His heart would fall again when he answered, the other line held by some telemarketer or customer. 

He sometimes contemplated whether he should be the one to reach out to Crowley, but most of the time he squashed the idea before making it to his telephone. He just _knew_ Crowley thought it was his fault. And it was. If he hadn’t been so confused, if he had let Crowley know just _how much_ he loved him, maybe he wouldn’t have left. Maybe they’d still be together. Maybe things would be different. 

There was one time he actually stood at the phone, hand hovering over the receiver, ready to punch in the numbers that felt like an old friend. He’d started, fingering one rotation at a time, before giving up halfway through. It was hopeless. Crowley would never forgive him. He couldn’t even forgive _himself._

The flowers in his bookshop all died. He tried to keep them alive for as long as possible, but eventually, they withered, much like all things in life. He left them there, the corpses of Crowley’s numerous gifts, unable to throw them out. They stood, reminding him of all he had lost, all he had thrown away by accident. And so they remained, an ancient testament to ancient times where life had truly been heaven. Now it was purgatory at best: all gray, all the same, happiness and hope leached out to be replaced by nothing. Not hatred, not distaste, but the faintly bitter, altogether depressing flavor of _nothing_. 

* * *

“I’ve never seen _anything_ as peaky as you look today.” Crowley squirted some water on a sago palm, gently nudging its pot closer to the window so as to not spill the dirt. “More sun. Loads more. Or else it’s out to the street with you.”

The palm had the decency to shudder a bit, although, in truth, it wasn't frightened in the slightest. Crowley, it seemed, had lost his usual iron fist, too full of pain to inflict it on anyone or anything else. His voice when talking to the plants, which had been in the past a rough bark of intimidation, had shifted into something entirely more motherly. He wasn’t aware of it, of course, but the shift most likely occurred because he had finally learned exactly what his voice could do when used in a harsh way.

“And you. You.” Crowley turned to another fern in the corner, frowning. “You. You!” He walked quickly towards it, visibly shaking. Fury shone in his eyes. 

The fern started to quake, genuinely worried. _Was the old Crowley back_?

Crowley reached the plant and was able to hold his angry expression for a few moments before letting it fall. “There’s nothing wrong with you, actually. I just— I don’t know.” 

A lump emerged in his throat, out of his control. He barely managed to choke out one more “I don’t know” before succumbing to the tears he had suppressed for so long, the ones he should have shed one at a time throughout the week, and not all at once. 

“He hates me,” Crowley said to the fern through tears. “He hates me. _I_ hate me.” He sighed, shaky and wet. “I’m a really shitty person, you know that?”

The fern abstained from replying, though it silently agreed. 

“I’m a shitty person. Can’t even feel bad for myself, can I? I completely deserve this.” He managed a slow smile. It wasn’t as broad as the ones he had had while dining at the Ritz, or under the stars, or after the play, but it was something. 

“But Aziraphale doesn’t,” he continued. “He doesn’t deserve this at all. I… I should say sorry. Or something. Even if he doesn’t want to see me.” He took in a breath, trying to banish the last of his sobs. He wiped his eyes and let out the breath, feeling slightly renewed if not a little thirsty. “I should at least try. Don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t.”

He let his eyes wander, trying to think of how best to apologize ( _crepes? Dinner?_ ) when the answer struck him as plainly as a lunging pit viper. 

_A bouquet_. Of course. What else could he give to him than flowers? What else could carry so much meaning, and carry on his tradition? Nothing could be the better parting gift.

And Crowley knew _just_ what flowers to use. 

* * *

Aziraphale’s feelings finally caught up to him that evening. (They were, like him, quite bad at running, and altogether not fond of exercise, so it really was a miraculous event.)

First came the sadness. The seeping, drizzly misery that settled on him like a fine mist. It fogged his eyes, bringing moisture to them he didn’t know was there. 

Regret was like a punch to the gut. It felt like his insides were crawling, trying to crush in on themselves. It was eating him from the inside out.

Aziraphale poured himself a drink, just to cope with it all. He hoped the alcohol would clear his mind, wiping every emotion away like chalk off a slate. Instead, it seemed to have the opposite effect, marinating his pain and increasing it tenfold. He longed for a way to leave the intolerable mess he’d become. He longed for a lifeline, a rope, to pull him up and out of the hellhole he had fallen into. He longed for _Crowley._

And then the answer came to him, plain as day. _Apologize_. _Apologize, and everything might be fine again. Apologize, and maybe you can save whatever fleeting shred of affection he has left._

It wasn’t long before doubt entered his mind. He hated himself for entertaining the entirely plausible possibility that Crowley might not want to see him. His mind was so insufferable when it was right. 

He wavered on the edge of decisiveness, unsure whether to apologize and risk his soul crushing, or to forever hold his peace and live with the knowledge he was too much of a coward to do anything. 

By the time his glass was empty, he’d decided to suck it up and try to apologize. The alcohol loosened his anxiety slightly, giving him a sort of anything goes attitude. 

Somehow, he got the idea to make dinner for Crowley as a way to say sorry. He felt it best reflected all the good memories they had shared, from the soup early in their relationship to the mugs of hot cocoa during that one snowstorm. 

Aziraphale nearly laughed remembering how he had dropped an entire bowl of soup when he’d seen Crowley in his clothes. He wished he could say that that flustered, lovestruck man he’d been had disappeared once he got more comfortable with Crowley, but he had an inkling that if Crowley walked in, wearing his clothes, he would most certainly fumble whatever he was holding. 

He walked to the kitchen, took out his favorite pot, and turned on the burner, ready to make some soup. Aziraphale knew Crowley loved soup, and, at one point, had loved him. He hoped to rekindle the love, or to discover it had never been extinguished in the first place. 

Upon an examination of his pantry, he realized that all the tins of soup he had had from Crowley were finally gone, prepared, he assumed, in some hungover state at an ungodly hour of the night.

It wasn’t a big deal. He’d just step out and get some more. _Right_. He wiggled his hands absently, eager to get outside but unsure what his next step should be. 

He recalled where he’d seen Crowley first purchasing the soup, all those months ago, at a convenience store just a few blocks away. He decided he’d go there. Grabbing his keys and coat, he left, completely forgetting about the stove.

* * *

The streets were practically empty by the time Crowley went out in the Bentley, bouquet in the backseat. He supposed everyone was home, at dinner. He hoped Aziraphale wasn’t eating, but, knowing him, he most likely was. _It was fine_ , Crowley figured. Aziraphale would most likely be eating alone anyways. And, if he wasn’t at the bookshop, he could just leave the bouquet on the doorstep. Aziraphale would definitely know who it was from. Who else would leave flowers for him?

Sirens passed behind him, and he let a firetruck pass. He tapped the steering wheel impatiently. Not even Queen could calm his nerves. 

He glanced into the backseat, checking to make sure the bouquet was intact. There was no reason why it wouldn’t be, he was just worried. Worried and… scared. 

Crowley gulped, inhaling and exhaling, focusing on every breath. He couldn’t afford to panic now. 

The light finally changed, and he swung the Bentley around the corner. His stomach spun as he went down the street, considerably slower than usual, trying to draw out the time to mentally prepare himself. 

When he arrived at the corner, he did a double take. Had he turned onto the wrong corner? Where the bookshop was supposed to be was a crowd, made up of both civilians and firemen. Two trucks were parked on either side. Smoke clogged the air, tangible and thick.

 _No_. _This couldn’t be the bookshop. Not_ **_Aziraphale’s_ ** _bookshop. He’d never let it catch fire_. 

Crowley didn’t bother to neatly park the Bentley, just haphazardly threw it against the curb and reflexively adjusted the setting to park. He practically leaped out of the front seat, slamming the door aggressively. Running towards the bookshop, his eyes searched through the smoke, still not convinced that it was _really_ the bookshop that was on fire. But sure enough, when he got close, the characteristic, many-paned windows and double doors appeared through the thick gray cover. 

Denial pierced his heart. _No. No. Not the bookshop._ His eyes searched the crowd, knowing that Aziraphale would certainly be there, anxious and anguished as his precious books went up in smoke. But try as he might, Crowley couldn’t find him, his eyes searching for those lovely blond curls, the dapper tan suit, and finding… nothing. 

Fear coursed through him. _What if Aziraphale was still inside?_

He began to fight his way closer, pushing past spectators on the sidewalk. He waved a hand in front of his face, hoping to clear the smoke. It stung his eyes but didn’t deter him from moving closer.

“Oi, you!” someone called from behind. He turned and squinted, the smoke and his sunglasses making it difficult to see who had spoken. He assumed it was a fireman. 

“You the owner of this establishment?” he asked. 

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?” Crowley replied, drawing closer.

The fireman continued. “I’m’a have to ask ye to step away from the building, sir.”

“And I’m going to have to politely decline,” Crowley said, finally reaching the door. He pushed it open and entered.

The inside was infinitely worse than the outside, all the smoke building up under the small roof. He inhaled, trying to get enough air to scream, but coughed.

“Aziraphale! Where are you! I came to apologize, you idiot!” he shouted into the smoke. His eyes searched for signs of movement, but found none, other than the flames licking at every surface. 

Heat poured over him, coming in endless waves. He tore off his sunglasses, blinking haphazardly as the smoke fogged his vision. 

“OK, I didn’t mean that last bit!” he yelled over the crackling noises. “You aren’t an idiot, you’re a bloody angel! I’m the idiot!” He waited, but heard no reply.

“I’m sorry!” he tried, one last time. He continued looking, going as close to the flames as he dared. Nothing. Nothing at all stood out to him. He couldn’t even see the charred remains (not that he would have wanted to).

All around him, little bursts of flames emerged, completely devouring the books. It was a tragedy, having the bookshop on fire, with the dry pages as ready kindling, going up in smoke so _damn_ easily. 

Suddenly, a jet of water hit him squarely on the chest. It knocked him to the floor, soaking his clothes. It continued above him as he heaved. At least the smoke was sparser the lower he was, but the heat still made it hard to breathe.

“Aziraphale,” he moaned, his body aching. “Aziraphale. You’ve… you’ve gone. And I didn’t even apologize. What kind of an idiot does that make me, huh?”

He reached out, grabbing a leather briefcase by the remains of Aziraphale’s desk. If he couldn’t salvage Aziraphale, he might as well take a souvenir to remember him by. Judging by the weight of it, he guessed it was full of books. He clutched it tightly, the brass edges pressing into his chest. It was painful, but not as painful as the missing piece of his soul. 

He wasn’t sure if the smoke or sadness made the tears come; he suspected it was probably both. He was only slightly present in his brain when a fully-geared fireman ushered him out, slinging him over his back despite his fully functioning legs. 

Crowley couldn’t find the means to care about anything, really. The person who had lit up his life had gone up in flames, surrounded by what he had loved the most. He only hoped that Aziraphale’s last thought hadn’t been of him. He wouldn't have wanted him to die sad. 

* * *

The first thing Aziraphale noticed was the noise. The wailing sirens screamed in his ears as he approached his bookshop, laden with a brown bag full of soup tins. The overall effect was quite dizzying, combining the screeching alarm with the regular evening SoHo bustle. 

It was quite bright on the street, too. He had to nearly squint, trying to determine the source of the brightness. Lights danced in his vision, both red and white from the firetrucks and orangey-yellow from… _the flames_.

He dropped the bag. _His bookshop was on fire_. 

Rushing towards the building, he frantically rubbed his eyes. _No. No. This couldn’t be. How could it be? He had just been there, not even ten minutes ago. Not even TEN MINUTES AGO!_

But sure enough, as he drew closer, he could see right through the crumbled facade and the charred and smoking mess inside. Flames still grew on the edges, but were quickly snuffed by strong jets from the firemen’s hoses. 

He sank to his knees, no longer caring if the burned debris left marks on his dry-clean-only trousers. 

_It was gone._ Everything he’d ever loved. Everything he had worked for. Everything that had connected him to his mother. _Poof. Gone up in smoke_.  
He swallowed past an immense lump in his throat, expecting tears to come at any moment. They didn’t. His eyes remained stubbornly dry, refusing to even see what was right in front of them.

A void was slowly forming within him, deepening with every second. _The bookshop was gone, and with it his life’s work._ At this point, he wasn’t even mourning the loss of the material objects and building, but the connections he had with each and every one of them. 

Aziraphale rose and began to walk backwards, each footstep heavier than the last. He wanted to look away from the sopping, blackened mess that had been his domain for the past ten years of his life, but couldn’t make his head turn away. 

Instead, he hung it from his neck, letting it loll towards the ground. He had half a mind to fall to his knees again for no particular reason other than he wasn’t sure his legs could support him anymore, when—

“Aziraphale?” 

He spun at the mention of his name. In the setting sun, silhouetted in front of him was— _Crowley_.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s face crumpled, crumbling like the walls of his bookshop. He let Crowley run to him, the blanket that had been draped over his shoulders (probably by some medical professional) fly off. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley choked when he reached him, holding Aziraphale at arm’s length. 

Now that Crowley was closer, Aziraphale could make out how dirty he was. His face was marred with what looked to be ash, washed away in tracks either from sweat or tears. He barely had time to take in his appearance, however, because Crowley enveloped him in a squenching hug. 

Crowley smelled of smoke and salt, brimstone and broken promises, but all Aziraphale wanted to do was hug him back. So he did. 

“Are— are you alright?” Crowley said once they broke apart. He cupped Aziraphale’s face, frantically brushing back his hair, fussing over every aspect of his visage. “I— I looked for you, and I couldn’t see… I thought you were— I thought I had—”

“I know,” Aziraphale interrupted, reaching his own hand up and placing it over Crowley’s. He brushed his fingertips over the back of Crowley’s hand, stopping its panicky fussing. “I know.”

He brought Crowley in for one more hug. “I stepped out to get some soup. It was supposed to be for us. To… apologize. To you,” he explained into Crowley’s chest. “So… I’m— I’m— _I’m sorry._ ” 

All the tears he had unconsciously been holding back started flowing, blooming brilliantly out of his eyes and streaking down his cheeks. 

“Hey,” Crowley said, assuming his role as the comforter seamlessly. “Hey. It’s ok. Everything is fine. Well, not fine. But I’m here. You’re here. Shhh. And you never had to apologize. It’s me who should be sorry.”

Aziraphale hid his face in the soft material of Crowley’s shirt, feeling his heartbeat through the thin fabric. He composed his breaths, listening to its steady rhythm. 

“It’s just… _awful_. All those books, gone.” Aziraphale tried to say more, but his voice failed him. Crowley fortunately seemed to understand, and patted his shoulder, letting Aziraphale rest his head against him for support. 

“You can get new books. A new building. At least you didn’t burn with them.” Crowley rubbed Aziraphale’s back, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“It won’t be the same, though.” Aziraphale knew Crowley was right, knew that he should be thankful he wasn’t in the bookshop when it had burned. But he still couldn’t help but grieve for everything he lost. 

“Well, maybe they’re not all gone,” Crowley said. “Here.” He vanished from Aziraphale’s side, only to return carrying a briefcase. 

“I was able to salvage this. I know it’s not much, but— what?” He cut off, because Aziraphale had started _laughing_. “What’s so funny?”

“Just— just that _that_ happened to be what you saved,” Aziraphale said, wheezing. It was strange to think a minute ago he had been solemn and saddened. 

“Why?” Crowley looked so concerned, Aziraphale laughed harder. 

“Look inside,” Aziraphale said through giggles. 

Crowley tentatively set the briefcase on the ground, popping it open.

“Why, it is just books! What were you going on about, Angel? There are just normal books. Nothing special. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”

“Look inside the _books_ , dear,” Aziraphale said, joining Crowley on the ground next to the briefcase. He picked up the top book and flipped to a page. “See?” He showed Crowley what was in it.

Crowley squinted. “Why, that’s—!” He lifted it from the pages. Between his fingers was a perfectly preserved (if a little brown and brittle ‘round the edges) daisy.

“Mmm-hmm,” Aziraphale acknowledged, taking it from him. “I wanted to save them. So… this happened.” He waved a gratuitous hand over the pile of books in the briefcase.

“But there’s too many books in here for one bouquet. Unless… oh, you _bastard_. You pressed them _all_ , didn’t you?” Crowley gave a bark of laughter.

“I might’ve,” Aziraphale replied, sheepishly. 

“But you never knew, did you?” Crowley mused, taking out more books to see his various other creations, flattened and dried between book pages.

“Knew what?”

“Flowers have _meanings_.” Crowley glanced up, delight in his eyes. “Each bouquet was a message the entire time. And you never knew.”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to laugh. “You _didn’t_."

Crowley smiled back. “I did! See, daisies. New beginnings and love. I sensed something when you came in. Not to mention they produce a lot of pollen.”

He took out the next book. “Lilacs, from our Ritz dinner. Symbolize first emotions of love.”

He went on, taking out the next. “The night after, with the stars? Wildflowers for joy.”

“Light red and magenta carnations from before the park. Admiration and fascination.”

“Green carnations for the play. They were Oscar Wilde’s symbol, and”—he cleared his throat—“symbolize love between two men.”

And so the two sat, going over every bouquet Crowley had ever given, until they were surrounded by brittle petals.

“I had no idea,” Aziraphale said softly once Crowley was done explaining. “Thank you for telling me.”

“S’no trouble. Was probably going to tell you _eventually_. I had no idea you’d preserve them like this. Makes remembering them a lot easier.” Crowley grinned, and scratched the back of his neck, before his eyes lit up. “That reminds me. Give me a sec.” He got up.

Aziraphale watched as he went over to the Bentley and retrieved something from the backseat. Crowley hid it behind his back as he returned.

“I was actually on my way here. To… apologize. And… I brought these.” Crowley took the mysterious parcel from behind his back.

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale touched his chest. In Crowley’s arms was a bouquet of the most exquisite roses he’d ever seen, velvety and deep scarlet.

“For you.” Crowley offered the roses, and Aziraphale took them. “Red roses. They symbolize—”

“I know what roses mean, dear,” Aziraphale said, and then he kissed him.

Crowley had been more than ready to accept Aziraphale’s mouth, and moved along as if he’d planned it ahead. The two clung to each other, both the most important thing in the others’ lives, bouquet sandwiched between them. They didn’t care how many people saw. They were the only things that mattered, a whirlwind of petals and smoke.

“Sure is a shame about the bookshop,” Aziraphale said once they broke apart, looking back at the remains. 

“Yeah. I mean. You can stay at my place, if you like,” Crowley offered, glancing over to him. 

Aziraphale sighed, smiling. He kissed him again, softly and sweetly. “I think I’d like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an epilogue, coming soon. I promise. And then... it's over.


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's... over. (The fic, not their relationship.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! It feels so strange to be publishing the last chapter. I'd just like to say thank you to everyone who left kudos and commented while the fic was still in progress; y'all really motivated me to keep writing. 
> 
> Here's a lil short epilogue, just to close out. Let's end on a high note, shall we?
> 
> I guess all I have to say is ~~thank god that's over~~ hope you enjoy!

“Careful, Crowley,” Aziraphale called from the bottom of the ladder. 

“I got it, Angel,” Crowley replied, tongue between his teeth. A thin paintbrush rested against his index finger, the tip stained white with paint. 

“You’re a bit off center, there, dear,” Aziraphale said. He looked up, squinting, the early sun positioned right in his vision. 

Crowley sighed, ending the word he had spent at least five minutes painstakingly penning with a flourish. “Ach. Well. Gives it character.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Yes. I suppose. You’re also lazy, and don’t want to do it over.”  
“That too.” Crowley climbed down from the top of the ladder, doing it so seamlessly it looked like he had nearly slid. Once he joined Aziraphale at the ground, he pressed a kiss to his nose and wrapped an arm around his waist before assessing his handiwork.

“Well, now. Doesn’t look half bad from down here.” 

“Mm. Suppose not.” The two stood with their heads tilted, gazing upon their new store, and its still-drying sign reading  _ Pressed Flowers: Luxury Botanicals and Books _ . Just below that, a large banner was hung, printed with large black letters spelling  _ GRAND OPENING. _

“Shall we go in?” Crowley offered his arm to Aziraphale, who took it. 

The bell jingled merrily as they entered. The place still smelled new, and had yet to absorb the fresh scent of flowers and the musty scent from the books. Morning light filtered in through the high windows, beams of dancing dust illuminated.

Crowley wandered over to the plants. He grabbed his plant mister, and muttered as he did his rounds. 

“You, you. You NEED to control those leaf spots. And  _ you’re _ practically tan! Tsk, tsk.” 

Aziraphale laughed. “I still can’t believe you  _ talk _ to them.”

“It works, I’m telling you!” Crowley gave one last spritz packed with finality, then spun on his heel, placing the mister atop a nearby stack of leather-bound books. “Well.” He checked his watch. “A few hours until we open.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale looked up, meeting Crowley’s gaze. He smiled. “Do you—”

“I’d love to,” Crowley answered.

“You don’t even know what the question is yet.”

“I don’t need to.” Crowley bridged the distance between them in a few quick strides. “Anything you want to do, I’ll go with you.”

“Even watching that play again?” Aziraphale smirked, a rare expression that Crowley loved seeing upon his delicate features.

“Ok, maybe not that.” Crowley laughed, bringing his face close to Aziraphale’s so that their foreheads were touching. “Mostly everything you want to do, I’ll do it with you.” 

“You can’t mean that.” 

“I do, Angel.” With that, Crowley deftly brought up his hand, tucking something behind Aziraphale’s ear.

“Is that—?” Aziraphale reached up, his fingertips met with living fuzz and velvet. 

“Yeah. It’s a flower. Don’t touch it!” Crowley brought his hand back to the side of Aziraphale’s head. “You’ll mess it up. And it looks absolutely ridiculous.”

“So naturally you want me to wear it for the opening.” Aziraphale sighed.

“Yep.” Crowley grinned. “Don’t worry, I made something for me, too.” He snatched a wreath of flowers from a nearby surface. “It’s a flower crown, see?”

“You look like an idiot.”

“Aw, shut it. You’re jealous that  _ you _ didn’t get the crown.”

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale sidled closer to Crowley. “Maybe. For the record, I don’t think I could pull it off as well as you. You may look like an idiot, but you’re a handsome idiot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Crowley replied. He pressed a light kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Strange to think it’s been six months since we met.”

“And does that feel like a lot or a little?” Aziraphale glanced up, curious.

“I don’t know,” Crowley replied, turning back to Aziraphale. He pressed his mouth to his, lovely and luxurious. 

“And, frankly?” Crowley murmured into their kiss. “I don’t really care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to everyone who has read this! And to all those users who might be reading this in the future? I don't care if this is 20 years old. I'll probably still reply to your comment, should you choose to leave one. No pressure, of course!
> 
> ....what are you still doing here? the fic is over.... but feel free to check out some of my one-shots! And if you liked this one, in a couple months I should have another AU (for the ineffables too, of course), this one surrounding violins and orchestra. Because why not? 
> 
> Sorry about that shameless self-promotion. I'm just tired, I swear.


End file.
